Ecstasy
by magicfingerrs
Summary: Ecstasy: mental transport or rapture from the contemplation of divine things; rapturous delight. E/C, Explicit sex, Minor, D/s
1. Chapter 1

_It's not so easy  
loving me._

_It gets so complicated  
all the things you gotta be._

_-Save Me From Myself, Christina Aguilera_

If anyone ever asked me what I liked least about myself, I would always say being an albino. I hate being an albino. I hate having translucent blue eyes. I hate having a mess of curly hair the color of dental floss. I hate having to wear sunscreen every waking moment and I hate having to wear long sleeves, long pants, and hats, even in the hottest temperatures.

I know I shouldn't say that I'm an albino- I should say I have albinism, it's more politically correct. It's supposed to put me before my disease- but disease is another word I probably shouldn't use. I should say 'condition', it's a _condition_, not a disease, and I'm not an _albino_, I'm just a girl who happens to have albinism. I'm not _depressed_, I'm just a girl who happens to suffer from depression.

The last part was made up, I'm not really depressed. I don't suffer from depression either, even though I hate being an albino, which sort of translates into hating myself. But it's not myself I hate- it's just the albinism. The pale white skin, white eyebrows, invisible eyelashes, eyes that dart back and forth uncontrollably... I hate that especially.

I don't know why _I_ turned out the way I am. I know the genetics, I've been to enough Love Your Albinism conferences to learn the science of my ugliness, but I don't know why it had to be me. My dad has dark hair, _black_ hair saturated with pigment I can only dream of, and my mother, well...

My mother is the most colorful person I've ever seen in my entire life. I've never seen her in person, but I see her in photos everyday, so she exists to me in the present. She wasn't, she _is_. She died because of me- I wouldn't be surprised if it was the shock of bright white hair that killed her. My dad said it was hemorrhaging; I think I blinded her to death.

My dad hates to talk to me. The only time he talks to me is when he wants to talk about my mom. Then he never shuts up. Her eyes were emerald green, her skin was honey gold, her lips were ruby red, her hair was jet black, and her daughter was invisible. Dad never says the last part, but he thinks it, I can tell. Sometimes I think he might talk to me more often if I was colorful like my mother was. He probably thinks it's unfair- I guess it is- that he had to lose his beautiful, rainbow colored wife because of a colorless bundle of blah.

My dad and I live in a big white house on a hill with about five more rooms than we need. It's the house he bought for my mom right after they got married, and it's full of empty rooms for whatever siblings I guessed were planned. It's surreal sometimes, when I walk around the empty hallways and into the empty bedrooms and imagine that I could've had brothers, or sisters, or both, or my mother, and the reason I don't is because I was born.

I try not to spend too much time dwelling on thoughts like that. When I'm deep in thought and my eyes move back and forth on their own accord, people get nervous. I think I've caused enough gloom for one family without having to freak anyone else out with my eyes as well. Even my teachers at school don't like my eyes; I've begged them all to let me wear my sunglasses, but none of them will let me. How will I see, they ask me, if I wear sunglasses instead of my corrective ones?

I'm almost as blind as a bat, but glasses are pretty useless. I have a cane, one of those white ones with a red tip in case the rest of my blinding (hohoho) whiteness wasn't enough. My cane lets people know just how handicapped I am, but I also get to ride the bus for free, and my dad gets a handicapped parking pass for his car, so things even out. Life helps you out that way.

At school, I think I'm the only albino in all four grades. I'm not popular, but everyone knows who I am. If someone says something about Christine and my name isn't recognized, all it takes is a furtive, _you know, the albino_, and instantly everyone knows who they're talking about. Outside of my normal disgust for my albinism, I don't mind being recognized just because I have no pigmentation. That's really the only special thing there is about me.


	2. Chapter 2

_I got a father_

_and he can preach._

_So I said if I should die_

_and my soul becomes lost_

_Then I know it's_

_nobody's fault but mine._

_-Nobody's Fault But Mine, Beth Rowley_

I started eleventh grade with the flu. Of all the things that happened to me that year, I'll remember that forever. I was sick on my first day of school, and I did not want to go. I begged my dad to let me stay home, and I even offered to vacuum his room, but he wouldn't budge.

"Alright, Miss Christine," Nurse Giry sighed as she shuffled leftover summer paperwork around her desk. "We're here early this year, aren't we? What can I do for you?"

"I'm sick," I sighed back wearily. I leaned my elbow on her desk and absentmindedly twirled a powder white curl around my finger. "I think I have the flu. Will you take my temperature please?"

"You always think you're sick," she pointed out, standing up to find a thermometer. "It's the first day of school, Christine. Have you even _met_ your homeroom teacher yet?"

"I always _am_ sick," I sniffed. "And I haven't met any of my teachers yet, I really feel awful- you know I begged Dad to let me stay home today, but he made me come just because it's the first day-"

"Well, usually, that's an important day," Nurse Giry interjected cheerily. She tapped my cheek and I opened my mouth obediently as she slipped the thermometer under my tongue. "Why don't you take off your glasses? We are inside, you know."

I sighed and sat back with the thermometer still wedged snugly below my tongue. She would bother me, but Nurse Giry was the only adult in the school who let my wear my sunglasses inside. I ignored her question and wiggled the thermometer from side to side beneath my tongue anxiously; she tapped my head sharply with the pen and made a slicing motion across her throat. "Quit moving it," she ordered. After another minute, she pulled it out and read it with one hand planted on her hip.

"Well?" I demanded impatiently. "Can I go home?"

"100 exactly," she sighed. "Call your dad. You know he's not going to be happy, Christine- are you sure you don't want to _try _to sit out your first day of school? Let me see your schedule, maybe you've got some classes with Meg."

I reluctantly handed her my schedule and let my head sink into my hands sleepily. Dad _wouldn't_ be happy with me. He was never happy when I made him leave work to pick me up from school. "It's always something with you, Christine," he would sigh impatiently. "There's always something."

"Oh look, you and Meg are in English together," Nurse Giry hummed in surprise. She glanced at her watch and then pushed my schedule across the desk hopefully. "If you go now, I think you can still make the last half and say hi. I promise I'll call your dad, and you'll have to wait for him anyway... why don't you go and see what your new classmates are like, mmm?"

I grunted and shoved my schedule back down into the deep recesses of my backpack. "Fine," I muttered. "But just to say hello to Meg. You promise you'll call Dad for me? And tell him it's not my fault this time, I promise."

She held up two fingers. "Scout's honor, Christine," she swore. "Look, I'm dialing right now. Tell Meg to meet me here after school so I can give her a ride to ballet, alright?"

The hallways were deserted and quiet, just the way I liked them. When they were so clear of people, I almost didn't even need my cane or sunglasses, but I kept them both out just in case. Most of the time people ignore me anyway, unless it's a big crowd- I think I make people feel awkward, uncomfortable. I understand. I feel that way about myself too.

When I reached my class, I raised my hand against the door with a grimace. I was late, it was the first day of class, and I would be like a flashing white neon sign walking right into the middle of a class full of colorful people.

Just as I was about to knock, the door swung open and a rush of students flooded into the hall. All around me, the other doors had opened as well, and suddenly my quiet, empty hallway was lost to a stampede of color. Black people, beige people, tan people, pink shoes, red shoes, blue shirts, black jeans, blonde hair, red hair- I was surrounded. I quickly stepped around the corner to avoid the mess and bring myself out of everyone's line of vision. I would be like a beacon of weirdness in that crowd.

"Hey Christine!" It was Meg. I would recognize her voice anywhere. It was always perky, always loud, and always breathless. "You made it! I didn't think you were going to come- where were you?" She grabbed my arm before letting me finish and dragged us both behind the disappearing crowd. "Come on, there's an assembly in the auditorium," she explained.

"I'm sick," I muttered uncertainly, trying not hit anyone with my cane. I should've put it away, Meg was leading me perfectly well, and the cane only made things worse. The last thing I wanted was some dumb freshman making fun of me on the first day of school.

"Aww, what's wrong, do you have a cold?" Meg asked, immediately pressing the back of her hand to my forehead. "Did you go down to see my mom?"

"Yeah, my dad is coming to pick me up," I replied gloomily. "Your mom says to meet her in her office so she can take you to ballet, by the way. Is your recital this weekend?" I added the last part as an awkward attempt to continue the conversation. Dad says I'm socially inept. Well, he doesn't say it, but I know he thinks it. Poor sophisticated Dad, saddled with an awkwardly graceless albino like me.

"Oh yeah," Meg sighed dramatically as we neared the auditorium. "Lessons have been _awful_, I know I won't be ready by Saturday, I'll probably make an idiot of myself in front of everyone!" She laughed and rolled her eyes, and then dragged me forward to an aisle seat in the front.

Meg has this effortless... poise about her. I can't understand it; I can't understand the way she can talk about making an idiot of herself in front of hundreds of people, and then laugh like it's nothing. The idea of _facing_ people everyday upsets me, because there's always a chance that someone will notice my jerky blue eyes, or someone will laugh at my white hair, or that I'll trip and fall over my cane, or _something_. Meg doesn't seem to care. Dad loves her, I know he does; the only time he'll talk to me besides describing my rainbow mother is when Meg is around.

"What is the assembly about?" I asked under my breath as the principal tried to settle everyone down. I could make out a grim looking police officer and our principal's voice sounded more flustered than usual. I wriggled in my seat uncomfortably and tried to slip my glasses back on without anyone noticing.

"Young lady!" A voice right above me suddenly barked. "Sunglasses _off_! You know the dress code!"

I reluctantly slipped them back into my bag, and Meg stuck out her tongue after the teacher walked away. "You should get your dad to complain," she commented. "Can't you get a doctor's note or something?"

"No," I mumbled. "Because I _technically_ don't need them inside, there's no medical reason to wear them. Dad would never complain, you know him, he loves rules, especially ones that make my life suck..."

"Your dad is cute," Meg giggled.

"Oh- Meg! Gross," I groaned, sinking down into my seat even more. "That is _so_ weird, Meg, seeing American Beauty once was enough, please-"

"Shh, look, it's starting!" she replied, settling into her seat like she was getting ready to watch a movie. I frowned and looked forward fruitlessly- the grim cop was right by the principal's side now, and the auditorium was almost completely silent.

"Students! Students, settle down now, we have an important presentation for you today," The principal called out in a shaky voice. It wasn't the presentation that made his voice shaky, everyone knew he would be retiring soon. He rubbed his frail old hands together and continued. "I have Officer Mike with me here, and he's going to talk a little about _internet safety_! I'm sure most of you are familiar with MyBook and FaceSpace, _but_ I wonder how many of you know of the hidden dangers these website can pose for children like you." He smiled beatifically and a collective groan rumbled around the study body. "So, without any further ado, here is Officer Mike!"

"Hey kids," Officer Mike said gruffly into the mic. "I'm Officer Mike and I'm in charge of internet crimes down at the local precinct. Alright, like your principal said, you all know about MySpace and Facebook and all those sites like that. You've probably even heard about how dangerous these sites can be, and that's what our presentation today is about. Sickos! Who here has ever been propositioned by a sicko on the internet?" Everyone in the auditorium laughed, and Meg raised her hand with an eye roll.

"Tell me about it!" she groaned. "I get at least five messages on MySpace a week! They always say the same thing, hey honey, you're so pretty, I'd like you to dance for me, it's disgusting! My profile has always been private, but I get messages anyway."

A couple of other students gave similar stories and Officer Mike gave encouraging shouts of 'sicko' in between. "Now don't get me wrong, kids," he said after calming down. "I'm not talking about online dating here. My sister got married to a guy she met online, everyone does that nowadays. What I'm talking about here is CHILDREN being propositioned and SEXUALIZED by SICKOS on the internet!"

_Nobody would ever sexualize or proposition me,_ I thought dryly, _even if I begged them to._

"So I've got these handouts here for everyone with some statistics- everyone loves statistics, I've got tons of them- some stats, and some real life stories and some ways to avoid this cyber age stranger danger. Pass them around, pass them around, let's keep the ball moving here..." He gave a handful to teachers to distribute, and walked off stage for a moment to drink some water. The principal whispered something in his ear and he nodded and promptly walked back to the mic. "Is there a Christine Day here?" he boomed. "Christine? Your dad is here to pick you up, Christine!"

I felt my cheeks burn and I knew everyone could see me blushing. Everyone was looking at me, like always, looking at Christine the Albino Freak. At least they were thinking it. I unfolded my cane and grabbed my backpack from Meg, who touched my shoulder reassuringly. "Want me to walk you there?" she asked. I didn't reply and she followed, grabbing her stuff as well. "I have to talk to my mom anyway," she whispered as we left the crowded auditorium. I could faintly hear one person shouting out 'albino.'

"I hope the assembly will still be going on when I get back," Meg worried as she checked her watch. "After English I have AP History, and I heard the teacher gives homework on the first day. The last thing I need this week is homework, I really have to work tonight at dance."

I didn't say anything and pretended to concentrate on walking in a straight line. Meg would talk herself out, I already knew from experience. As long as I stayed silent by her side, she would babble on and on until she was finished, with no need for me to say anything. I liked it that way.

My dad was not happy. We reached the nurse's office and I could already sense his presence seeping out from under the door and through the cracks around the windows. He was annoyed and impatient with me for missing the first day of school and making him miss work. I hoped Meg's presence would calm him down.

"There she is!" Nurse Giry called cheerily as Meg held the door open for me. I swallowed and folded up my cane as Dad signed me out gruffly. "And look, she's brought my offspring with her, Christine, really, you shouldn't have..."

Dad turned around when he heard Meg was in the office and suddenly smiled ironically. "Hello, Meg," he greeted her warmly. "Thanks for bringing Christine down here, I would hate for you to _miss your first day of classes as well_," The last part was directed at me, of course. I stayed silent. Meg would make him happy. "You haven't been to the house in a while, I hope I didn't scare you away!"

"Oh hey, Mr. Daae!" Meg laughed charmingly. "No, I've just been really busy with dance after school, that's all. But after my recital I promise I'll stop by and visit you next week."

I sighed softly and lifted my hand to rest it on the nearby table, but I felt my hand brush against something, and before I could stop, I had knocked over a bowl full of something onto the floor. I groaned and bent down to pick whatever it was up- when I felt one, I could feel my face burn. Condoms. Great.

I heard Meg giggle and get down on the floor to help me, and I could hear Dad muttering under his breath. "You should take a couple," Meg whispered in my ear when Dad walked out of earshot to speak with Nurse Giry. "You know, just take one or two, just in case..."

"Are you kidding me?" I demanded, hastily trying to put them back as quickly as possible. "No way, there's an infinity and one reasons not to-"

"Come on, Christine," Meg nudged. "_I_ have a box at home..."

"Where would I put them?" I mumbled. "Dad would flip if he found them. And besides, do you honestly think there's even-" I shrugged and laughed flatly. "The slightest possibility of _that_ happening to me? No, not in this lifetime."

"You never know, Christine," she sang, quickly placing the bowl right where it was before I knocked it over. Dad walked back out and stared at me with a long, weary sigh. "You know, I felt her forehead, Mr. Daae," Meg whispered loudly. "She's really hot."

I thanked her internally for that, because I knew that if Meg said something, Dad would believe it. "Well, put on your jacket and your hat and your sunglasses," Dad sighed. "I'll drive you home and try to make it work after lunch break. Thank you Meg, and tell your mother I'll give her a call this weekend, alright?"

Meg nodded dutifully and squeezed my hand before I left. "I'll call you later," she promised. When she pulled her hand away, there were two condoms left behind. I stuffed them in my back pocket and hoped Dad wouldn't notice my bright red face.

"So what's the matter, you've got the flu?" he asked me gruffly once we were on the road home.

I shrugged. "I have a fever," I offered. "And I don't feel very well."

"You've been going out into the sun too much," he declared, shaking his head. "That's what it is. You know the sun is no good for you, but you keep going out, it's no wonder you got sick on the first day of school. Did you learn anything at least?"

"Dad, we never learn anything on the first day of school," I muttered. "It's just administrative bureaucracy, they just give out ten million papers for you to sign-"

"That's no excuse to miss it!" he insisted. "So? Do you have papers for me to sign?"

"Well- no, I- I missed homeroom because I went to Nurse Giry's office-" I stammered, awkwardly trying to adjust my glasses.

"So basically this first day of school was a waste," he said flatly. "Great."

He dropped me off on the driveway and backed out quickly before he could be late for work. I waved, but I couldn't see if he waved back. I doubted it. The door was unlocked, like it always was, because nothing bad ever happened in our neighborhood. There were too many left over Secret Service officers from Bill Clinton. Dad hated Bill Clinton, but I always liked his voice. After the Lewinsky scandal, I could remember Dad laughing at the TV and saying, "If he was going to have an affair, he could've at least picked a nice looking girl!"

I remember hearing that a lot, not just from my dad. I heard it on the television, in the supermarkets, where everyone seemed to agree that Monica Lewinsky was too homely to be the mistress of the President of the United States. I felt bad for her, because I'm sure everyone would say the same thing about me if I was ever involved in anything like that.

_"He could've at least picked a nice looking girl!"_


	3. Chapter 3

_I have no choice, I hear your voice-_

_feels like flying._

_I close my eyes, oh God, I think I'm falling_

_out of the sky, I close my eyes_

_heaven help me._

_-Like A Prayer, Madonna_

I got to stay home from my first two weeks of school, after the fake first day I had to attend. Dad wasn't happy, but every time he checked my temperature it was 100 or over, so he really had no choice. "But I want you to call Meg every night and catch up on whatever homework you're missing, do you understand me?" he insisted sternly before he left for work every morning.

I nodded dutifully, and never asked for one assignment. I already knew how things would go down when I finally went back to school, whenever that would be. I would approach my new teachers, teachers who had probably seen me before but never met me, blink balefully, whisper apologetically that I was 'sick' and everything would be excused. They would assume the worse, assume I had some sort of awful albino problem or something dumb like that.

Meg did come to visit me though, right after her recital, bearing chocolates and one long stemmed red rose. "For you," she purred dramatically as she handed me the chocolates and the rose. "From a secret admirer..."

I rolled my eyes and changed the channel. There was never anything good on TV during the afternoon, ever, and that's a fact. Meg snatched the remote from my hand and pushed my shoulder impatiently. "Christine!" she insisted. "I told you this stuff was from a secret admirer, hello! Can I get a shout out here?"

"You lie," I replied, snatching my remote back. "You've been bringing me your leftover chocolates and flowers after all your recitals, ever since you first _started _dancing, Meg. Are these dark or white?" I mumbled, holding the box up to my eyes. It was impossible to read; I grabbed my glasses and it made things a little clearer. "Gross, white, take them away. You know I like dark, why'd you leave me with these nasty ones?"

"Because this time my dark chocolates were... special," she sighed dreamily.

I swallowed the icky chocolate I was chewing on and muted Dr. Phil. "Special?" I repeated warily. "Dark chocolate costs like two fifty at Wal-Greens, Meg, what could be special about them?"

"Well, not the _chocolates_ exactly," she replied demurely, batting her eyelashes at me. "More like... who _gave_ them to me."

"Who gave them to you?" I gulped. _Please, don't let it be-_

"A boy..."

Oh God. I felt my heart drop in my chest and I stuffed another white chocolate in my mouth to have something to do. I could feel that _feeling_ again, that feeling I got whenever Dad announced he would be going out of town on a 'business trip' or whenever Meg introduced me to another crush. _She'll leave me. I'll be alone._

"A boy?" I whispered. "What do you mean? A boy from dance? From school? Who is he?"

"He's from dance," she continued to sigh. I felt my heart slow down and the blood slowly starting pumping again through my veins. A boy from dance would never last; they always turned out to be too serious for girlfriends or gay. I felt calm again.

"He gave me a box of chocolates after the recital- he's new, he just moved here, and he's so cute Christine, you just have to see him..."

I let her go on and on about her knight in shining tights as I felt my body continue to restore itself to its pre- freak out mode. "Where's he from?" I asked casually.

"I'm not sure," Meg replied with a slight frown. "I know he told me, but... well, he told me his parents were in the military, that they moved around a lot. I guess he's from a lot of places!" She laughed and rolled her eyes, then suddenly grabbed my arm. "Hey, do you want to come and meet him? I have my license now, we could go."

I wriggled out of her grasp uncomfortably and gave her a baleful smile. "I'm not supposed to go outside, Meg," I replied regretfully. "Dad says I have to stay inside from now on. But why don't you go ahead? I've got Ben and Jerry's here, I'll just watch a movie, go and see him."

She looked out the window longingly and then looked back at me guiltily. "Are you sure?" she replied, uncertainly biting her lip. "I feel so bad... you've missed all the first days of school and you've been stuck inside for so long, you've gotta get bored..."

"No, really," I assured her. "It's ok, look-" I pointed to the TV and smiled hopefully. "The Passion... oh. The Passion of the Christ is on. See?" My smile fell a little when I saw that was what was playing on HBO. "This movie's great, you know how long it is. I'll be busy all afternoon. Go."

It took one or two more words of insisting I would be fine, and oh look, isn't that James Caviezel sexy, even if he is getting nailed to a cross, before I finally convinced her to leave. She wanted to go; it was difficult, but not that difficult.

It's not like I minded Meg having friends or anything, because I'm not a complete whack job. Just because I look a little funny doesn't mean I'm crazy, or one of those Poison Ivy or Swimfan characters. I just can't help it. The thought of Meg finally finding her perfect guy and forgetting about me is terrifying, because without Meg, I don't really have any friends. I can't even think about life without Dad.

But I don't want Meg to resent hanging out with me, or feel guilted into it or anything, so that's why I encouraged her to go. Besides, Army brats never stayed in one place for very long, after a month he would probably be in a whole new state and Meg would have a whole new guy to occupy her mind.

I turned my attention to the TV and balked when I realized I had tuned in just as the whipping scene was beginning. I wasn't completely blind, I was just legally blind, and my hearing worked just fine. I heard the sound of a whip slicing through the air, and then the sound of James Caviezel groaning in pain, and I felt my stomach muscles tighten. I don't know why I watched; I've never liked gore, and I've had the story of Jesus' conviction and crucifixion drilled into me all of my life.

I always had a small crush on James Caviezel. I remember seeing him for the first time in The Count of Monte Cristo; his voice gave me shivers and then haunted me later that night. Dad is a cradle Catholic; we go to Mass every single Sunday and confession every two weeks, where I guess he confesses about the extramarital sex he has once a month on his 'business trips.' Thinking naughty thoughts about Edmond Dantès at night was horrifying the first time it happened to me. What was I supposed to do? Just ignore the honey sweet warmth that was swimming through my tummy and tickling me between my legs?

And now my Edmond was shackled to a wooden block wearing nothing but a small cloth and the red stripes that ran across his back, sliced his thighs, and tickled the front of his chest. I swallowed as I heard the sound of another whiplash and another moan of pain from James- Jesus? When I heard the moan of pain, I felt a sudden jolt, like a jolt of the honey sweet warmth that bothered me the night after I watched the Count of Monte Cristo. I shut off the television in horror.

I vaguely wondered if Jesus liked it, any of it, even a little bit. _The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share of it... _Saint Teresa of Avila seemed to like pain; she said it brought her closer to God. Maybe Jesus thought so too, while they were whipping him over the little wooden block. _Pain is divine._

We went to Mass that Sunday like always, like clockwork, even though I still had a fever and I had to be bundled up in layers of sweaters and scarves, even in the hot, incense thick air of the church. I shivered and trembled all the way there, but Dad drove ahead confidently, not about to let a little flu stop us from hearing the word of the Lord.

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgives all your iniquities; who heals all your diseases..." Dad told me gruffly. "Besides, I gave you cough syrup before we left. You can deal with it for an hour and a half."

Church bored me. It was a Latin mass, I don't know who they thought they were kidding; everyone was probably bored. Dad sat silently with his onyx and silver rosary sliding between his fingers fluidly, one bead after another, one Hail Mary after another. _Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death._ He still kept Mom's old rosary right by the bed, on the night table that would have been hers if I hadn't murdered her with my weirdness. I wasn't allowed to touch it, but I remember being entranced by it when I was younger; five decades full of milky white pearls, real pearls, strung on silver identical to Dad's.

I sighed wearily as the priest droned on about the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the Hail Mary, redemption, Hell, Heaven, and instead let my eyes wander over the stained glass windows and the Stations of the Cross. There he was again, poor old Jesus getting whipped and punched, and dragging his cross up the hill. My mind flashed to a half naked James Caviezel, and suddenly I wasn't so bored anymore.

I glanced around the church furtively, not that it did much good with my sight, and wondered if anyone could see what I was thinking. Was it a sin to think of Jesus half naked, moaning in pain, writhing over a wooden block in a... non religious way? I swallowed and tried to focus my attention on my own rosary, pink quartz with a silver crucifix, but my fingers unwillingly travelled over the smooth pink beads, across the Mary medallion, and onto Jesus' body, nailed firmly to the cross. _I wonder if he liked it... any of it, even a little bit._

"Dad, I don't feel well," I mumbled after Mass was finished as he ushered me through the crowds to get to Father Gabriel. "I think I'm going to be sick; my throat hurts."

"Christine, can you please just hang on for another fifteen minutes?" he replied impatiently as we waited in line to greet the priest. "You have the flu, not cancer, and besides it won't kill you to spend more time out of the house. You need fresh air."

"Dad, this air is staler than prisoner bread!" I moaned. "And I really, really think I'm going to be sick Dad, I promise, I'm not lying, can we go please? Can I at least go to the bathroom?"

"We have to greet Father Gabriel," he snapped. "You can go to the bathroom after; I have to speak to Meg's mother anyway. Now hush and be respectful, do you understand?" It was our turn to greet the sanctified Father Gabriel; if it wasn't a sin, I would have been attracted to him. His voice, at least. He couldn't have been more than thirty, thirty five, and his voice sounded nice and masculine, young and strong. I felt that honey sweet warmth again, and I gulped guiltily, sure that he could see.

"Mr. Daae, how are you?" he asked pleasantly, taking Dad's hand and shaking it. "Is everything going alright at the firm?"

"Yes Father, thank you Father..." Dad's voice faded out of earshot and I felt an odd buzzing suddenly fill my ears. It was like I was being submerged under water, except I couldn't swim and I was scared of being otherwise immersed under any water that wasn't the shower faucet. Even baths made me queasy. Speaking of queasy- my stomach lurched suddenly and I felt the Body of Christ rumble ominously inside. My ears kept buzzing, and I could practically feel my fever mounting, degree by degree.

_"Peace, be still," _a voice whispered in my ear. _"How beautiful and delightful you are, my love with all your charms..."_

I couldn't think, I could only feel my forehead burn and my teeth chatter and my stomach lurch, and unable to stop myself, I threw up all over Father Gabriel's robes. I stayed hunched over, bracing my hands on my knees, with my face down, like that would actually conceal my identity to anyone, and waited to hear the voice whisper in my ear again.

_"Peace, be still."_


	4. Chapter 4

_When you believe in things that you don't understand_

_then you suffer._

_Superstition ain't the way._

_-Superstition, Stevie Wonder_

Dad made me go back to school when my fever finally broke, even though I still felt awful. According to him, without a fever I wasn't genuinely sick, no matter how terrible I felt, and I would be going to school until my temperature hit one hundred again. At least I could tell that's what he thought.

Meg was excited to have me back, especially after several of her classes were inexplicably switched; we would be together all day, _every_ day from now on. I sighed wearily as I hobbled slowly to my new homeroom class, bright white stick in front of me. Meg would want to chat. Meg would want to gossip. Meg was so... perky.

"Christine!" she squealed when I entered the room. She patted the seat next to her, all the way in the back, and I folded up my cane with a blush. The teacher wasn't in the room yet; there was only a smattering of students at all. "Was your dad mad at you for barfing all over His Sexiness?" she giggled as I took a seat.

"Meg!" I moaned. "Can we please forget about my minor lapse in control? It was awful enough having to sit through confession afterwards, I thought I was going to die... and besides, since when do you think Father Gabriel is sexy?"

"Since we talked about premarital sex in catechism and he couldn't stop blushing," Meg replied matter of factly. "He's so cute! I feel so bad for him, can you imagine having to take a vow of chastity for the rest of your life?"

"Yes," I mumbled; Meg ignored me and continued. "I mean what if he just wakes up one day and he's _really_ horny? What is he supposed to do? I read that it was unhealthy for guys to keep it all in, you know, like blue balls," she imparted wisely. "That's why they hate it when girls play hard to get."

"Really?" I asked uncertainly. "Is that true?"

"Yeah, all of their blood like goes down to their dicks and it gets stuck until he- you know," she blushed. "They get headaches and stomach aches and everything! _And_ I heard it hurts a _ton_ too. Can you imagine? I'm glad _I_ don't have to deal with that."

"It hurts?" I repeated faintly. The idea of a sexually aroused Father Gabriel in pain because of his erection completely erased my image of him covered in my vomit. I wondered if it was just a Catholic thing, if only Catholics had this weird relationship with sex and pain, and then I swallowed nervously and wondered if it was just me. "Hey Meg, have you seen The Passion of the Christ?"

She groaned. "Ugh, yes, we had to watch it in catechism, don't you remember?" When I shook my head, she shrugged and continued. "You must not have been there, or maybe it was when we were in different classes... whatever. Father Gabriel made us watch it before Confirmation, and it was awful. It was worse than the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I've never seen so much blood-" she shuddered and shook her head fiercely. "I didn't like it. Why?"

"No reason really," I replied faintly. "I just... I saw it the other day, that's all. It was on TV, remember?" She nodded distractedly as the rest of the class suddenly flooded through the door with the teacher. "Meg, do you think Jesus maybe-"

"Everyone settle down," the teacher snapped, dropping her purse on her desk and spinning around to write something on the board. "I don't want to hear any talking, I want everyone to pull out their rough drafts from last period and work _silently_. Understood?" She spun around again and I saw that she had written something on the board, but I couldn't read it.

"Meg," I stammered in a whisper. "Can you read that for-"

"Ms. Daae!" the teacher called sharply as she took a seat behind the large wooden desk. "A word up here, if you please. Bring paper and a pencil."

I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead as I gathered my notebook and pencil and made my way to the front of the class. Her voice sounded like a block of wood, a hard, unyielding block of wood that you would buy in Home Depot to build a fence. It wasn't cold like ice, or hot like fire, just dry, sharp, and hard, like a big block of wood. "Yes, ma'am?" I stammered when I reached her desk.

"Christine Daae, is that it?" she asked shortly, glancing up at me over her glasses. "Just turned sixteen, sick with the flu for the first two weeks of school?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You didn't call anyone to get the homework you've missed," she observed. "Were you that sick?"

"Um, well, I was in bed most of the time," I offered weakly. "I really didn't feel very well- but I'll make it all up before the week is over." I added the last bit in a sudden panic that she would call Dad and tell him how much of a loser I was. That was the last thing I needed.

"Don't worry about it, most of it was busy work anyway," she said matter-of-factly. "Right now, the students are working on their first drafts of a paper we'll be working on all quarter, so I would like for you to get started on that. You are to choose a person, preferably famous and preferably dead, and write about them. Life, background, why you chose them, interesting facts, lasting impressions, etc. It's not too difficult. Got it?" She glanced at me over her glasses again and I nodded. "You can stay in the back of the class if it doesn't bother Meg to read what's on the board for you. That's all."

I spent the bus ride home vaguely wondering who I would write my paper on. It was a lame assignment, one that the teachers used every year with mild variations, but it was the most exciting thing I had been assigned so far. I sighed dully; why couldn't I write a paper about how much I hated school instead?

Dad was home when my bus dropped me off, still wearing his work suit and carrying his briefcase. "Hi Dad," I greeted him lamely, clumsily feeling the wall to guide my way into the kitchen. "What are you doing home so early?"

"Christine," He was frowning, I didn't even have to see his face to tell. His voice was frowning. "Christine, why aren't you wearing a hat? You're going to get burned again, and then you're going to get sick, and then I'm going to have to take you to the doctor again, and then I'm going to miss work-"

"Ok, I'm sorry," I muttered. "I just- I just walked from the bus stop to the house, I didn't think I would need one today. Are you- are you going to stay? W-why did you leave work so early?"

"No, I'm not staying," he sighed wearily. Leave it to the dummy to ask stupid questions, I chastised myself mentally. "What do you think, Christine? I just left some papers in my office here, I had to pick them up, but I've got them now and I'm going back... I'll probably be home late, make yourself something to eat, ok?" He shrugged into his overcoat, grabbed his briefcase and started to the door, but for some reason, I opened my mouth suddenly.

"Dad?" I called, twirling my cane anxiously.

"What, Christine?"

"I have to write this paper, for English class. It has to be like a biography of someone, but I wasn't sure... who do you think I should write about?" I asked uncertainly, feeling my cheeks burn every time I stumbled on a word and stuttered. Stuttering, great, just add that to the list of reasons I suck.

"Jesus," Dad replied immediately. "That's easy. Just go read the Bible."

"Ok," I sighed. "Thanks Dad, I'll see you later." He didn't say goodbye, but when I looked up at the screen door, the way it was moving back and forth was sort of like a wave instead. The door was waving at me instead of Dad saying goodbye. I really needed to lay down; we had learned enough about fatigue induced hallucinations in health class, and I certainly didn't need another issue to add to the already substantial list.

I fell into a fitful sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, and strange images immediately filled my mind. I hated dreaming; there was enough strife that I couldn't control in regular life, and dreams were worse. Nonsensical images, confusing warnings and characters, feelings of falling... I superstitiously stayed away from all dairy products because Meg had told me once they induced dreaming. Awful nighttime hallucinations, that's what dreams were.

In my dream, I was standing in a church, a Catholic church, but not the one I went to every Sunday. The ceiling towered above me, and it looked like it might actually touch Heaven itself. I swiftly turned my head and saw hundreds of stained glass windows lining the walls, but- but- they were all in perfect detail. I raised my hand to my eyes in confusion, and blinked. My eyesight was perfect. I held my hand out, and saw with dismay that it was still chalk white. I was still a ghost.

I looked back up to the windows, but now the images seemed even sharper, there seemed to be even more miniscule detail. When I realized the scenes they were depicting, I took a step back and gasped. Every single window was a scene of martyrdom, death, or violence. Jesus was being brutally whipped in the window right in front of me; his back was arched and already covered in stripes of blood, and the more I stared... the more the image seemed to move. Suddenly the Roman soldier's cat o' nine tails was slicing through the stained glass and slicing into Jesus' back; when Jesus arched and cried out, I felt myself arch and gasp as well.

I turned my gaze to the next window in morbid, disgusted fascination. It was Saint Lucy, smiling beatifically and wearing a beautiful blue dress. She tilted her head, and her smile grew as blood suddenly poured from her eyes. She held out a silver platter just in time to catch her beautiful blue eyes as they simply rolled out of her head.

The next scene seemed vaguely familiar. It was a beautiful woman with long black hair shielding her eyes from a bright light above her. As I stepped closer, the light diminished and revealed itself to be an angel, a beautiful golden angel with golden muscles and golden wings. Even the spear he was carrying was bright gold. He raised the spear in the woman's direction and she fell to her knees in supplication, begging him to stop, or begging him... to continue? He suddenly plunged the spear forward and into who I now recognized as St. Teresa's chest and she threw her head back in ecstasy. He withdrew it and she arched her back, and he suddenly thrust it forward again as he slowly turned his head to stare at _me_. He pointed his free hand at me, as though threatening that I would be next.

"_It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord, Thy God,_" a voice breathed in my ear. I gasped and turned around, but there was nobody there. It was only me in the massive church, me and the echoing voice that had spoken to me after I puked all over Father Gabriel. "_Thou shalt not tempt the Lord, thy God..._"

"Matthew 4:7," I breathed uncertainly. "M-Matthew, 4:7-"

"_Pray so that you will not fall into temptation... the body is willing, but the spirit is weak._"

"Matthew 26:41," I stammered nervously. I furrowed my brow and shook my head. "But wait, no- it's- that's not it, that's wrong, the _spirit_ is willing and the _body_ is weak, it's temptation of the body, not the spirit-"

"_Christine,_" purred the voice. "_Christine..._"

"Who are you?" I breathed, trying to ignore the delicious, awful, burning, terribly wrong fire that was was between my legs. It wasn't right to feel this way at all, especially not in a church, even if the church was an imaginary one...

"_I am what I am._"

I awoke drenched in sweat, with my legs clamped desperately together, simultaneously trying to ride the diminishing waves of _whatever_ it was that was rushing through my body and stop arching my back in such a sick mimicry of the position in which I had just seen St. Teresa. What just _happened_? My head collapsed against the pillow and I exhaled, brushing a translucent curl off my sweaty forehead. I rolled over and dialed Meg.


	5. Chapter 5

_You hear me?  
I put a spell on you_

_Because you're mine._

_-I Put A Spell On You, Nina Simone_

"Hey Meg?" I began tentatively later on that week. I pushed some hair behind my ear and bit my lip. "Meg, do you think I could ask you something?"

"Sure, Christine, what's up?" Meg replied, lifting her golden, athletic leg and stretching it against the fence. We were in the neighborhood, and I was accompanying her on her daily run, garbed in my usual uniform of a long sleeved shirt, long pants, 500 SPF sunblock, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat. I never ran; I took my bike along.

"Well, it's kind of personal..." I waffled, anxiously splitting already split ends. "You have to promise not to tell anyone or think I'm weird or anything, ok?"

She rolled her eyes and bent over to touch her toes. The man across the street mowing his lawn hit a rock and tripped. I'm sure her pink sports bra and black spandex running shorts didn't help. "Christine," she grinned. "Did you tell anyone or think that I was weird when I told you about making out with that dancer even though I knew he was gay?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Then come on! I promise your secret is safe with me. Let's go, come on, start biking and talk to me." She began to jog and I awkwardly tried to catch up with her.

"Meg, have you ever like... you know... felt something, like really intense..."

"Oh my gosh, are you in _love_?" she screeched, turning her head while keeping a steady rhythm. "With _who_? I didn't even know you _liked_ anyone!"

"Ew, no, I'm not in love with anyone!" I shuddered. "I'm not talking about love, I mean this intense _physical_ thing, like you know... _down there_." I tried my best to give her a meaningful stare as I wobbled across the street. She slowed slightly, but continued to jog effortlessly.

"You mean an orgasm," she said matter of factly. She whipped her head around and I ducked to avoid her sunny blonde ponytail as it whipped through the air. "Right? It feels really good, in your-"

"Yes!" I squeaked. I must've been as red as I've ever been; I couldn't imagine a more humiliating discussion, and I am no stranger to humiliation. "Exactly. That. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Well, sure," she replied with a shrug. "My mother is the school nurse, she helps make the sex ed brochures. I've never had one though, why, did you?" She stopped running, suddenly intrigued. "I've never even tried, it seems really strange..."

I shrugged and stared at the pavement. "I-I'm not really sure," I mumbled. "I was asleep, and I had this really weird dream, and when I woke up, I just felt this- this _feeling_, it was indescribable, and it lasted for an entire minute, and I couldn't move, and it felt... amazing."

"What was the dream about?" she pressed with a glint in her eye. "Was it about someone at school?"

I shrugged uncomfortably and adjusted my sunglasses. "I- I don't really remember, actually," I fibbed. "I just know that I woke up to that feeling, that's all. Hey, are you going on the field trip next week? I wish I could go, I'm so jealous."

Thank God Meg was easily distracted, because I suddenly had the uneasy feeling that she wouldn't exactly understand my strange dream, not that I even understood it myself. It was easy to change the subject anyway; I knew she was excited about the field trip to the city our art teacher had planned for the next week. I had never been to the city without Dad before, and he planned to keep it that way.

"A lot of dangerous people in the city," he grunted suspiciously when I presented the parental consent form to him. "I don't think it's such a good idea."

"But look Dad, see here? We'll be supervised by my art teacher the whole time, there's nothing to be worried about-"

"Who said I'm worried?" he snapped, folding up his newspaper in a huff. He glared at me over his glasses and I nervously looked away. "I just said I don't think it's a good idea! It's too dangerous, Christine, the answer is no."

"But Dad!" I cried.

"Go to your room!" he ordered, climbing to his feet and effectively towering over me. "How dare you whine at me? I don't want to see you for the rest of the night, the answer is _no_!"

"You could always forge his signature," Meg suggested, dipping a toe into the lake after I proposed my problem to her. After a successful run, we always came to the lake and sat under the gigantic tree on its bed; it was one of the only places outside that I could take off my hat without dying of third degree burns. "And it's only ten dollars to get in the museum, just skip lunch for a week. I've forged my mom's signature for tons of things."

"I don't know, Meg," I waffled as I hugged my knees to my chest. "I've never forged my dad's signature before- what if I got caught? He would absolutely _kill_ me, I know it, my life would be reduced to catechism, school, and church-"

"Not that it's much different now..."

"Yeah, well, you know what I mean," I mumbled. "But I _do_ want to go, so badly, I'm sure it'll be really fun-"

"Why won't he let you go, anyway?" she interrupted with a furrowed brow as she picked at the grass around her. "We _are_ going to be with a teacher the whole time, it's not like we can get in a lot of trouble or anything."

I shrugged. "He told me it was dangerous," I replied uncertainly. "I guess it's because of all of his cases, it makes him paranoid. He says most of the people he prosecutes come from the city originally, and he always talks about the crime rate and stuff..."

"Christine-" Meg rolled her eyes and rolled onto her stomach in front of me. "Your dad is just a little strict. He's just a little too strict, face it. He's cute, but he's strict." I pulled a face but she covered my mouth with her hand and continued. "I, as your best friend, officially encourage you to engage in the un-American activity of lying, forge your dad's signature on the permission form, and go on the dumb field trip!"

So that settled it, in the end. Meg could always be counted on to settle things, even if she didn't always settle them the right way. I was too scared to actually do the forging myself, so she ended up settling that too, with an impatient, "Oh, just give it to me already!" and a flourish of the black ballpoint. I stared at that signature all night, sure that God would punish me, and send the angel Michael down from Heaven to strike me with his golden spear just like St. Teresa, but I was out of luck. All that happened was Dad shouted at me to turn the lights off and go to bed.

I felt no better in the morning as we all loaded on the bus and I took my seat besides Meg. As she flirted with one of our classmates in the aisle, I carefully taped up a large black piece of construction paper on the window to block out the light and quickly reapplied my SPF 30. I turned around to put it back in my bag, but Meg suddenly fell back against me, pushing me into the window and my marshmallow white hand slamming into the edge of it. I saw the slice before I felt the sting.

"Oh my gosh, Christine, I'm so sorry!" she squealed, grabbing my hand frantically. She blew on it but visibly paled when blood began to seep out slowly. "Oh no," she fretted, looking up at me with big brown eyes. "You're bleeding!"

I swallowed as I watched my hand turn from ghostly pale to crimson red, and I was suddenly... mesmerized. I don't know why; everyone bleeds, right? I had bled before, of course, but something about seeing _this_ blood was different. It was _thrilling_.

"I guess I should go to the bathroom and wipe it up," I finally said with a dry throat. Meg nodded anxiously, and I suddenly noticed my classmates right around me had stopped messing around to stare at me in silence. What was so jaw-dropping about seeing me bleed anyway? I swallowed self consciously and started making my way to the back of the bus, where the bathroom was. As I passed every pair of seats, silence followed me. I tried to will myself to stop blushing, stop sweating, stop being so pathetic. What did they expect? Did they think my blood was white too?

_Relax,_ the rational half of me said. _Nobody is staring at you, and if they are, it's only because you're bleeding, not because you have albinism._

I resented the fact that my rational half was always politically correct.

The bathroom was about half the size of the seat I was sharing with Meg, and it smelled like it hadn't been cleaned in ages. I moved to turn on the feeble looking faucet, but suddenly stopped when I saw the blood again. It was turning sticky from hitting the air, and there was a little river of it that had begun to trickle down my wrist. It was beautiful. I brought a trembling finger to the glistening pool and dipped it, and suddenly, my finger wasn't white anymore either.

_"You shall not make any cuttings in your flesh."_

I gasped and swung my head around, but there was obviously no one else in the bathroom with me. It was the same voice, the exact same voice that had spoken to me in the church, and in my dream, and the voice that had whispered passages of the Bible in my ear, passages that had been twisted perversely to say strange things to me-

_"Christine..."_

I turned the faucet on with such a force that it squeaked in protest. I tried to make the water flow as powerfully as possible, anything I could do to block out the whispered voice in my ear. With great regret, I held my bloody hand under the water and watched as the beautiful red washed away from my hand and left chalk white in its place. I squeezed the slice a little bit, just to see if it was done bleeding, and felt a jolt when more blood slowly seeped out. It was the same jolt I felt after waking up from my dream of St. Teresa.

_"I will forgive your wickedness."_


	6. Chapter 6

_You won't regret it, no, no, _

_Them young girls don't forget it _

_and it's all so easy... _

_Try a little tenderness. _

_-Otis Redding, Try A Little Tenderness_

The city seemed different without Dad shadowing my every move. It seemed much bigger, much more... accessible. Every other time when I had come with Dad, the city scared me- the towering skyscrapers, panhandlers on every corner, racing traffic... now the city excited me. There were just so many people around that I didn't feel like I _stood_ out as much as I know I did in my little town upstate. I felt like if I just took two steps away from my group, I could successfully disappear into the bustling crowd and never been seen again. It would be a tempting thought if I wasn't such a coward.

Thinking of Dad made me nervous; what if he tried to call the school for some reason and I wasn't there? What if he somehow found out that I had forged his signature and decided to come down to the city to take me back home? What if he decided to humiliate me in front of the rest of my classmates? That would be, well... humiliating, I thought as a shiver tickled its way up my spine.

"I want to go to the Egyptian wing first!" Meg declared after our art teacher lectured us and set the class free in the museum. "Let's just check out this map here-"

"Hey Meg, come with us!" The kid who had been flirting with her on the bus called. He grinned and held up his map triumphantly. "I know where the Egyptian wing is!"

She turned to look at me eagerly and I smiled back blandly. As long as she didn't desert me, I would spend the whole day staring at William the Hippo if that was what she wanted. Besides, at least if I went along with a group, I wouldn't be forced to make conversation all day- I could just fade into the background like always, and float behind them like a ghost, a ghost with a bad frizz problem. I trotted along obediently.

"Hey, you guys know Christine, right?" Meg said as she breathlessly caught up to the others. She pulled me in front of her and beamed, like she was presenting a prize refrigerator on sale. I tried to wriggle away, but she held fast.

"Sure I do," one girl smiled. I think her name was Ramona. "We have history together, right?"

I swallowed and tried to smile without grimacing. I always felt like I was grimacing when I tried to smile. It wasn't that I _wanted_ to grimace, I did want to smile, but I was never sure how my smiles appeared to other people. I hoped it didn't contort my features anymore. "Yeah," I replied. Yeah. I racked my brain for something else to say, maybe a comment about the awful homework load or our teacher's ridiculous new wig, but my brain's social cortex shut down as usual, and I just kept smiling like a dummy. We kept smiling at each awkwardly for a few more seconds, until she finally decided to stop waiting for me to be interesting and turned back to the others.

They started to walk, and I followed along glumly. I don't know why I thought the field trip would be fun. I don't know why I thought it would be worth going against Dad's wishes and forging his signature to come along. If I had stayed behind, I would probably be with some ninth grade class watching a movie, and I would go home with a clean conscience. This dishonesty would plague me until next Sunday.

I glanced down at my hand and gently traced the raised slice with my pinkie finger. It stung. I brought it close to my face and blew, and I was suddenly tempted to stick out my tongue and lick it. I shuddered and dropped my hand back down to my side, shoved in my pocket, where it belonged, out of view, even as I felt the skin slice open again from the force I used to shove it away. It was bleeding again, I could feel it. I looked up to find my group, and saw that we had stopped to admire _Washington Crossing the Delaware._ How utterly boring; what ever happened to the Egyptian wing?

"You should get a band-aid for that," a deep voice next to me suddenly commented. A voice; a voice? A voice! I spun around to see the voice, and my backpack caught onto an ornamental vase. I felt the weight falling, I could feel the vase about to fall and shatter into a million pieces on the floor, and I could feel Dad's wrath when he learned that I had lied, forged his signature, and clumsily destroyed a museum artifact, and I could _feel_ the weight of his disappointment, and then suddenly, I felt nothing.

No weight, that is. I hesitantly opened my eyes, and saw that the vase had been righted, and my backpack unhooked. I looked up, and saw a blurry outline of a tall man standing in front of me. "I caught it," he explained in that _deep_, deep voice. "Don't worry."

Where was my group? I had to find my group. I couldn't just stand around chatting with strangers and wait for something else to fall down and crash in my midst. "I have to go," I mumbled, carefully stepping away from the voice- I mean man- in the dark suit who had saved the vase from my cursed presence. "Sorry I knocked it over- I um, thank you."

"Don't forget about that band-aid," he repeated quietly.

The rest of the museum tour was miserable, like I expected it would be. I don't even know _why_ it was miserable, because I'm sure everyone else had a great time, it was just _me_, the awkward fifth wheel that couldn't enjoy herself. It didn't get any better until we stopped in front of a painting by Salvador Dali. It was Jesus, suspended in midair, crucified to a floating cube. I squinted to get a better look, and swallowed when I saw the tiny little cloth he was wearing to cover himself.

"That's sick," a guy grinned in awe of the painting. "He's just hanging there, in mid-air."

Meg shuddered and shook her head. "I don't like it," she murmured uneasily. "It's weird- what's going on with those cubes hanging in the air? And why is Jesus wearing a thong?"

"They stripped him," I whispered hoarsely. The group turned to stare at me. "Before they crucified him, remember? The soldiers stripped him... and then they beat him. That's why he's almost naked- they wanted- they wanted to humiliate him."

"It's almost like something out of Saw, if you think about it," Ramona commented. "I mean, have you seen The Passion of the Christ? It's just as gory. Mel Gibson just used Catholicism as an excuse to make an exploitation flick."

"At least there aren't any nails in this one," Meg pointed out cheerfully. "Or blood, really. This picture's actually pretty tame, don't you think?" She turned to me hopefully, and I nodded dutifully and tried to stop squeezing my legs together. It was just that Jesus was so very _naked_, I couldn't _help_ getting flustered.

"Yep," I smiled lamely. "No nails. No blood."

"That's his wife, you know," a deep voice suddenly mentioned from behind me. I dropped the bagel I had bought in the museum cafeteria and tripped over an invisible crack in the floor. I turned around and stared, as well as I could at least, with my trembling pupils and Coke-bottle glasses.

It was the band-aid man. He was just standing there with his arms crossed casually, observing the painting with us. I squinted a little and realized that he actually wasn't wearing a suit- that would be way too formal for a museum- but a dark sweater and jeans. I glanced at Meg uneasily and saw her carefully eyeing the man's tall form. She looked impressed.

"Really?" she smiled. "Is that true? That's so romantic! He put his own wife in the painting!"

"It is romantic, isn't it?" He smiled casually and took a step closer. I edgily took a step back and accidentally stepped on someone's foot; when they complained, I muttered an apology under my breath and turned my gaze back to the band-aid man. He was staring at me.

I didn't like him staring at me. I hated it when anyone stared at me. I got hot and short of breath and I felt that submerged-under-water feeling, when my ears got fuzzy, and this time, I'm sure I felt a fever coming on. I never got better, I knew it- I was still sick, I could even feel myself getting queasy, like when I threw up all over Father Gabriel in the church, and I was going to throw up again-

"Christine?" I looked up in a panic, and I'm sure if I had been born with pigmentation, I would be white anyway, white like a sheet. It was Meg; the rest of the group seemed to have moved on, and she was standing in front of me with an expression of concern contorting her pretty features. "Christine, you look sick," she said gently. "Are you ok? Do you want to go to the bathroom?"

"Um..." I took a deep breath and looked around, but the band-aid man was gone. Good. I felt better immediately. I forced a smile and nodded. "I'm ok," I replied. "I'll just go find the restrooms really quick, you can go on with the group, I'll meet up with you guys, ok?"

"Are you sure?" she pressed skeptically, glancing down the hall at the boy she liked. "I feel bad letting you go by yourself."

"I'm ok, I'm fine, Meg," I insisted, bending down and grabbing the bagel with a napkin. I tossed it in a nearby garbage can, adjusted my glasses, and smiled. "Come on, I'll meet you in a little while. Look, the restrooms are right over here." Thank goodness she stopped arguing, if she followed me she would smother me with questions, and bite her lip and say maybe the museum was too bright, maybe it _wasn't_ a good idea for me to have come, blah blah blah.

There was a little lounge area outside of the bathroom, like the ones in JCPenney. It looked awfully inviting, with the chocolate brown leather couches and the freshly cut daisies sitting in a vase on the small table. I quickly went to the ladies' room, did my business, washed my hands, pushed my glasses as far up my nose as possible and examined my reflection as much as I could, splashed cold water on my cheeks, and walked out to sit in the lounge. It was empty.

I turned over my hand and saw that the cut looked inflamed- almost swollen, and it didn't seem to want to stop bleeding. The blood was just _transfixing_, I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Did Jesus feel like this, when he saw his own blood being spilled all around him? I thought about the picture we had seen, Jesus suspended amongst floating cubes while the artist's wife stared at him from below, and that terrible feeling I felt after my dream in the church resurfaced, and I had to close my eyes.

It was so strange, the feeling, like there was a weight being taken off of my shoulders and being pressed somewhere else instead. I squeezed my legs together, and the pressure increased, and my urgency increased too. One hand felt for the cut one, and like I was in a trance, like I couldn't control what I was doing, the fingers slowly pulled apart my skin, sending a stinging pain through the slice, letting the blood flow thicker, and sending an terrible, awful, delicious jolt down between my legs.

_"No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man,"_ whispered the voice, _that _voice in my head, the one that had been speaking to me in the church, in my dreams, on the bus, and the voice that had terrified me when I saw it manifested in the shape of the tall man who advised me to find a band-aid-

"That's a nasty cut," rumbled a weight next to me.

I jumped. I might have even squeaked, I can't be sure. Instead of hearing the voice faint, like an echo inside of my head, it was right next to me now, sitting next to me, commenting on the bloody slice that graced my pigmentation-less hand. I opened my eyes, and turned to look.

It was him alright. The band-aid man, the man who had been observing the painting with our group. He was sitting next to me calmly, like he came to relax in museum bathroom lounges all of the time. "It's just a cut," I breathed defensively. "It's nothing, it's just a cut-"

"What happened?"

"I hit my hand on the bus," I murmured. "That's it, I just hit my hand... I'm on a field trip with my school."

"Why are you opening it?" He turned to face me head on and I felt a cold sweat suddenly flood my body inexplicably. I was being submerged again, submerged under water, and everything was fuzzy and muted- what was wrong with me? I shook my head firmly and took a deep breath. I shouldn't be talking to strangers in the bathroom.

"I'm not," I said firmly. "I just washed my hands, that's all."

"_You love evil more than good, and lying rather than to speak righteousness... let your lying lips be put to silence."_

"Did you- did you say something?" I whispered. Why would the voice that spoke inside of my head match the voice of the man who kept telling me to find a band-aid? Why was I even talking to the band-aid man? I had to go find my group, it didn't matter why, because I was just imagining the voice in my head who constantly quoted the Bible at me, and I wasn't imagining the man sitting next to me in the dark sweater and jeans-

"Why?" he asked quietly. "Did you hear something?"

"Psalms," I replied in confusion. "52, 31... I heard the Psalms."

"You can't see," he observed in that same quiet, calm voice. He actually sounded a little surprised. "I didn't know that; you're blind."

"Only a little bit," I whispered. "I can see somethings, I can see colors... shapes. Light, dark. I can see outlines, I can see silhouettes. I'm not completely blind."

"You can't see my face," he murmured, tilting his head slowly. "What's your name?" I took a deep breath and squinted to get a better look at him, but he was too blurry. Blurry edges, dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin... one side looked lighter than the other, like he went out in the sun and forgot to put on sunscreen. He was right; I couldn't see his face.

"Christine," I said. "I'm Christine."

"Follower of Christ," he smiled. "Christine," He held out his hand and took my cut hand to shake. His thumb traced the bleeding slice, and he leaned forward, to whisper in my ear, "I know that the pain feels good."


	7. Chapter 7

_Don't stop now _

_I need this to hurt- _

_Burn it into my mind. _

_-Emmy Rossum, Don't Stop Now_

The bus ride to school from the museum was uneventful. I felt numb. Well, I didn't really feel numb- numb is too dramatic. I still felt things, I still laughed blandly when Meg joked with me, I still jumped in surprise when the bus driver slammed on his brakes on the interstate... but I felt like only half of me was present. The other half felt like it was lost.

I wasn't sure if it was lost, or still sitting next to the man in the museum bathroom lounge. I felt disturbed. It was a difficult feeling to describe... but I know that I felt _something_. It was strange; I couldn't remember feeling anything but embarrassment and guilt and loneliness for the longest time, that now that I was feeling something _different_, I didn't even know what it was.

I tried to take a step back and think logically, like my dad would if he was working on a case. I tried to pretend that I was Dad, and I was working hard to free a wrongfully accused man of murder, or rape, or robbery, and I had to look at the facts and nothing else, and analyze things from a strictly rational point of view. Except I wasn't Dad, and thinking logically didn't exactly feel right.

I felt the same jolt of electricity when the man touched my hand and caressed my bleeding wound I had felt dreaming about Saint Teresa being stabbed and impaled by a shining gold spear. It was the same _itch_, the same _urgency_ for something more that I had felt when I imagined Jesus being whipped and humiliated and tortured. I closed my eyes, and almost on their own, my hands trailed down and simultaneously pinched the tender white skin of my inner forearms.

It felt _good_.

I swallowed uneasily and reached my hand into my back pocket. Meg was chatting with Ramona and some other girls sitting nearby, and our teacher was reading an art book in the front seat of the bus. I looked out the window, and saw that we had a good twenty minutes to go before we would be back at school. So far I hadn't received a call from Dad. Had I actually gotten away with going against his wishes and then lying about it? I swallowed the lump of guilt in my throat, and pulled out the piece of paper I had shoved in my pocket in the museum.

_Erik, 555-1234_.

I wondered how much else I could get away with.

Dad got home late, around eight in the evening. I had already finished my homework, and I even had a completed rough draft for my English paper; I did decide to choose Jesus in the end. I tiptoed out to the great room warily, not sure what kind of a night it would be. Had he already found out? Did my art teacher call him? Was the man in the museum a spy for my father? Droplets of sweat broke out on my forehead.

"Hi Dad," I called, making myself visible. He looked up from emptying out the change in his pockets and scowled with a grunt for emphasis.

"You couldn't even make something for dinner?" he complained, shrugging off his coat. He sighed, and I could see even through his white dress shirt knotted muscles and tension all down his back. "I mean, I work all day Christine, the last thing I want to do is cook in the evenings."

At least he didn't know about the field trip. "I don't know how to cook," I replied dully. "You always cook dinner."

"Well, don't you think I ever get sick of it?" he snapped. "I give you everything you want, you hardly have any chores in this massive house, I mean, I hire someone to clean- I don't make you do it!" His scowl deepened and he slammed his briefcase on the table. I flinched and he shook his head in disgust. It looked like disgust to me.

"I'm tired, Christine," he muttered, passing a hand over his eyes. "All I ask for is a little bit of help around the house. Is that too much to ask?"

"But- you always cook-"

"Answer my question!" he snapped. "Is that too much to ask?"

"N-no-"

"Thank you. That's all I wanted. Why don't you go to your room?" he suggested wearily. "Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes, go do your homework or something."

"Ok, Dad."

I hated feeling like this. I hated feeling guilty, and insignificant, and like a big stupid invisible failure. I looked around my room, and I felt even worse. He was right; I did get everything I wanted. Beautiful white iron canopy bed, 400 count pink cotton sheets, a Bose stereo for my iPod next to my flat screen TV... in my closet, beautiful clothes (mostly long sleeves, of course), expensive jeans, fashionable sneakers... we weren't rich, but I had nice things. I had beautiful things. I had a beautiful life, didn't I?

Dinner would be ready in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of wallowing in selfish depression about how beautiful my life was, or thirty minutes of doing something. I was struck with an idea. I got on my knees and rummaged under my bed, searching for my box of old and extra school supplies. Found it. I pulled it out and started rummaging through the box, searching for something... and then I found it. I held it up to the lamp near my bed, and it glinted and shined against the light. Perfect.

I tiptoed out of my room and stopped at the hall closet. Inside was Dad's toolbox, a shiny red lacquered box he took out when something was wrong with his car, or when the lights went out or something... I opened it up and removed my tool of choice, then hurried back to my room.

I always heard about people cutting themselves. It seemed like a terrifying idea, something totally foreign and incomprehensible. We discussed it in health class, and we watched Lifetime movies about girls who had perfect GPAs, perfect parents, perfect friends, and who used razors to slice across their wrists because it was just too hard to be so perfect all the time. People in class made fun of those girls. How could it be too hard to be perfect?

And then we watched movies about girls with no friends, girls who wore black all the time, who listened to Marilyn Manson, whose parents were drug addicts who abused them, girls the whole world had give up on, who took razors and slashed across their wrists because they were depressed and because nobody loved them. People didn't make fun of them as much.

We never watched movies about boys.

I wasn't perfect. I didn't have perfect grades or perfect friends or a perfect family. I looked like a freak with shifty eyes. I was sixteen years old, and I had white hair. I would never be able to go out sun bathing, and I would never be able to look people in the eye with confidence. I would always be blind, contenting myself with blurs and colors and shapes.

But I wasn't abused at home either. My dad was a lawyer, and we lived in a well to do suburb in upstate New York. I _did_ have friends, mostly Meg, but I had some, and I got good grades at school. Dad never touched me in a bad way- in fact, he hardly touched me at all. Sometimes I wondered if he was somehow disgusted by me, if the idea of touching me repulsed him so much, because of my unnaturally white skin, or my embarrassing white hair. I wouldn't blame him.

I used the screwdriver to unscrew and dismantle the tiny little pencil sharpener that had been buried with all of my school supplies, and then I wiped it down with some rubbing alcohol. It was brand new, never been used- I wasn't about to chance using a graphite covered razor on myself. It shined even brighter than before.

_This is good, this is right,_ I thought to myself as I pressed the razor into my thigh, my white, translucent thigh, the thigh nobody would ever touch. At first nothing happened; I might as well have scratched myself with my fingernail. I pressed harder, and this time I felt it- I felt the razor puncture my skin, and it stung, and I bit my lip and pressed harder, dragged it harder, until there was a faint pinkish-red slice left behind.

_"Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit,"_ hissed the voice in my head, echoing and bouncing from frontal lobe to western lobe to eastern lobe to southern lobe, bouncing back and forth so it sounded like a million voices screaming at me all at once. _"You are not your own. You were bought at a price-"_

"My body is a temple of the Holy Spirit," I breathed, taking the razor again and pressing deeper, deeper, as deep as I could, because with every speck of blood that popped up on my snow white thigh, I felt a new jolt of electricity between my legs. This time, when I pulled the razor across my skin, I saw more than just a faint pink scratch and more than just a tiny droplet of blood; this time, my skin _opened_, like it was welcoming me inside, like my own body was welcoming me inside of myself, and I realized with faint mortification, that the slice oozing blood slightly resembled the slit that was throbbing so insistently between my legs.

_"Honor God with your body..."_

"I am," I whispered, leaning back against my bed as I let the contractions flow through my body and out through the blood on my leg. "My body is a temple."

"Christine!"

Oh no. I scrambled off the floor, shoved the screwdriver and pencil sharpened under my bed, and grabbed a tissue to dab the blood on my thigh. There was more blood than I realized, and it just kept pouring out, kept coming out, red, red, red. I shook my head back to sense and carefully wrapped the razor in another tissue, slipped it in my pocket, and fixed my pants. Hopefully it would stop bleeding long enough for dinner.

"What did you learn today?" Dad asked flatly when we were seated at the table. He had undone his tie, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing tan forearms. I swallowed and look away; there was no way I was attracted to my own father.

"Nothing much," I mumbled. I swallowed a bit of chicken, and took a swig of fruit punch from my glass. Dad scowled and pushed the glass away from my plate. I sighed; I knew what that meant. Stop drinking, or you won't eat your food, and it will go to waste. Think about the children in Africa.

"What do you mean nothing?"

"I didn't really learn anything new," I repeated uneasily. My eyelashes fluttered, and I stole a glance in his direction, but he wasn't looking at me. He was staring out the window, his expression in between sullen and numb, his chicken and spaghetti untouched, and his hand curled loosely around his glass of red wine. Suddenly, I felt an aching pang of tenderness for my dad, a rare moment of solidarity as he stared outside aimlessly, probably missing my mother and probably fed up with me. I wished I could bring her back to him, even if I had to trade places with her. Maybe I belonged where she was more anyway. "I love you, Dad," I said suddenly, reaching out and patting his arm tentatively.

He jerked his head and shook it slightly, then grunted, picking up his plate and heading to the sink. "Finish your food," he ordered wearily, leaving the dish behind and walking away to his room. "I'm going to bed."

My rosary was right where it always was- on the night table next to my bed, the shiny pink quartz twinkling seductively as I carefully locked the door behind me. When I walked, I could feel the sting of the cut I made on my thigh, and I felt a pang of guilt. I had sinned. I was a sinner. I was a sinner. Was God glaring down at me right that very moment? Was he giving me the same look of mild disgust Dad gave me every single day?

I think I actually preferred the look of disgust, I realized blandly as I slowly sat down on my bed. I picked up my rosary and made the sign of the cross in the direction of the crucifix on the wall opposite to me. _In the name of the Father, the Son, and the holy Spirit. Amen._ Yes, I decided glumly as I began the Apostles' Creed, being given a look of disgust was better than not being looked at at all, wasn't it?

_I believe in God, the Father Almighty..._

I unhooked my bra and shimmied out of my pants; there was blood on them. I swallowed nervously and tucked them beneath my bed; I would wash them in the sink later. If Dad asked... even though he probably wouldn't- but if he did, I could always use my period as an excuse, right? I pulled on my nightdress, the only dress I owned with short sleeves, and settled myself under the blankets.

_...creator of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord._

The beads were comforting; it was such a familiar ritual to pray the rosary, it was something I had been doing my entire life. Apostles' Creed, Our Father, three Hail Mary's, Glory Be, etc etc. Like a song that was permanently stuck in my head.

I found the small slip of paper that had been slipped into my pocket earlier and anxiously contemplated the phone number. _Erik, 555-1234._ His name was Erik, not Eric, but Erik, with a k. How unusual. I felt my palms start to sweat and I glanced at my alarm clock- it was past nine at night. Calls after nine on my cell phone were free. Calls after nine wouldn't show up on the bill. Dad's room was all the way at the opposite end of the hallway, and he was probably sleeping already anyway.

I swallowed and dialed.

"Christine," a voice rumbled.

I felt like I would faint. It was like seeing an imaginary friend from childhood come to life in front of my eyes, to hear the same voice speak to me through the telephone that spoke to me in my head. _Why_? My fingers trembled as I handled the rosary.

"How did you know it was me?" I whispered.

"Lucky guess," he replied, smiling. I could hear his smile. "Follower of Christ; you must have been praying before you called me, am I right?"

I dropped my rosary. "No," I rasped. "No, I wasn't."

_"Let thy lying lips be put to silence..."_

"Did you say something?" I breathed, closing my eyes in anticipation of his answer. I knew what it would be; of course he didn't say anything.

"Did you hear a voice again?" he asked knowingly. "Your conscience knows you were lying. Now you'll pray some more after we've hung up- how many decades are in a rosary?"

"Five," I replied.

"And how many times will you pray those five decades?" he smiled again. I felt his smile broaden, and I felt my body begin to throb again. When I look down, both my hand and my thigh were bleeding, and the cuts were throbbing, throbbing, insistently, and I suddenly felt light headed, and then Erik's voice was there, in my ear. "You hurt yourself tonight."

"Yes," I admitted in a moan. I let my head fall into my hands as I suddenly felt overwhelming guilt for what I had done. Only disturbed people cut themselves, defiled themselves- only people with legitimate reasons to prefer pain to their normal lives. I didn't have a legitimate reason!

"Next time you hurt yourself," he murmured, "next time you take a razor blade and cut your skin, think of me. Think of me fondly."


	8. Chapter 8

_Did you see that I've got a lot to learn? _

_Well don't think I'm trying not to learn, _

_Since this is the perfect spot to learn _

_teach me tonight. _

_- Sammy Cahn, Teach Me Tonight_

It was suddenly very difficult to concentrate in school. I was always a daydreamer, since day one, but I had never felt such an all-consuming feeling of _incurable_ distraction. It didn't matter what class I was in, or how interesting the teacher was- there was absolutely _nothing_ I could focus on in school.

I spent Geometry drawing crucifixes all over my scrap paper instead of taking notes about the Pythagorean Theorem. The only thing that vaguely interested me about the Pythagorean Theorem was the name 'Pythagoras' because it was Greek, and I remembered seeing something about Ancient Greek Sexuality in the museum the day I lied to my dad. I pinched my wrist hard for thinking bad thoughts- the skin immediately turned a mottled purple. That would leave a mark.

_I was watching the TV show House the other night and Dr. House said that if you talk to God, you're religious, but if God talks to you, you're psychotic. I hope I'm not psychotic. _I didn't even worry about what my English teacher would think of my essay about Jesus- the worst she might do would be to send me to the nurse's office, and I knew Nurse Giry. And she knew I really wasn't crazy.

Meg didn't notice my sudden inability to focus, or if she did, she didn't mention anything. We continued to go on our runs and go to movies together, and she continued sleeping over my house on Friday nights. The Friday nights that Meg slept over were the highlights of Dad's week. He even came home early the last night she came over.

"Christine, what time will Meg be here?" he asked me anxiously as I half-heartedly finished up a science worksheet at the kitchen table. I looked up and scowled, annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of my daydream of being tied to a large wooden cross by the voice of Erik/whoever else the voice belonged to.

"I don't know," I mumbled. "She told me she would call me when she got out of dance class. Probably later tonight."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" he demanded. "Don't you care what time your friend will be here?"

"Not as much as you do," I snapped petulantly.

His eyes widened in shock and after a second's recovery, he grabbed my arm, yanked me up from my seat at the table and shoved my books into my chest. "Go to your room!" he bellowed. "How dare you talk to me like that? If it was anyone else but Meg I would tell you to call them and cancel tonight! Get out of my sight and don't come back out until she gets here!"

I stormed to my room (after accidentally bumping into the bathroom door) and slammed my books on my bed. I paced my room angrily, once across, once back, once across, feeling the hot breath practically steam out of my nose. I wasn't sure which one I hated more, stupid, infatuated Dad, or stupid-er, beautiful Meg. It wasn't fair, was it? I finally sat on my bed, fuming and gripping my arms with bruising force.

He acted like it was _my _fault, like I was the one who decided I shouldn't be tan and golden and honey blonde like Meg, or lithe and limber and able to do flying pirouettes without falling flat on my face. I felt the hot tears squeezing out of my eyes and I clawed my arms tighter. It was _not_ my fault, I didn't _ask_ to be born with stupid white hair and ugly eyes that couldn't focus properly; would Dad even miss me if I just disappeared?

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Meg; she picked up on the fourth ring, out of breath. "Hey Christine!" she gasped. "Listen, I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier, I just got out dance three minutes ago and I'm on my way to your house now-"

"Wait, wait, wait, Meg," I stopped her. "Don't- don't worry about it, I was actually calling to ask you if I could sleep over your house instead tonight. Do you think your mom would mind?"

"Oh, sure, no problem," she replied. "Is there something wrong? Doesn't your dad want me to come over?"

"Well, of course he does, he always does," I mumbled, "I just um, haven't really cleaned my room, it's a mess-"

"Ok, I got you!" she interrupted brightly. "Listen, I'll pick you up in ten minutes. Be ready, bye!"

"I- oh, ok," I spluttered. Click. I sat on my bed and tried to formulate a good excuse to explain why I was going to Meg's house instead of vice versa; Dad would definitely be upset to hear he wouldn't be able to spend the evening with his shining star. Even more importantly, I had to think of the plan that was currently swaying and dancing to the frigid breeze blowing around my brain. I hoped the breeze wouldn't freeze my frontal lobe; I heard awful things could happen without the frontal lobe.

_I couldn't possibly,_ I waffled to myself bashfully, biting on a pinkie nail. _It's an awful idea, I would get in trouble, I would get caught, Dad would be furious... God would be angry._ I couldn't do anything if God wouldn't like it, and God certainly wouldn't like that. What kind of penance would a sin like that merit?

I turned off the lights in my bedroom and knelt at the side of my bed, facing the large crucifix hanging on the wall. I found my nicest rosary, the one Dad gave me as a present on my sixteenth birthday, made with sterling silver and real rose and clear colored Swarovski crystals, and made the sign of the cross. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on being repentant, on regretting my bad thoughts, bad actions, bad _everything_.

I finished the Apostles' Creed and continued to concentrate on being repentant, being humble, thinking about the First Joyful Mystery, _I desire the love of humility._ _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth, as it is in Heaven. Amen._

I wondered why Dad liked Meg so much. I felt a strange twisting inside of me at the thought of them both, and only when I saw how tightly my white fingers were gripping my crystal rosary did I realize the ugly twisting inside was jealousy. What was it about her that he liked? Was it her bright blonde hair? Her golden tan that extended over her entire body, a trim body that was toned from years of ballet and vigorous dieting?

I interrupted myself in the middle of my second Hail Mary and walked to my mirror. My reflection was blurry, but I could see myself. I was shorter than Meg, and I lacked the lean muscle tone she had; my arms, my belly, my thighs were slim, but soft, weak from disuse. I had small breasts and a normal rear end. My hair wasn't sleek, flaxen, or Nordic- I imagine that if I had been born normal, it would've been dark brown, like my parents. Instead, it was unruly, always knotted, coarse, curly white wool. I looked like a sheep.

I stood there in front of the mirror, gently tracing my thumb over the healing cut on my finger, and realized there were murmuring voices coming from the living room. I cocked my head, thinking maybe it was just the television, but no- that was definitely Dad's deep thunder and lightning voice. Dad and Meg.

As I walked into the living room, the voices got louder, and I realized they were in the kitchen. I hesitantly tiptoed closer, frowning as I heard Meg laughing and Dad chuckling under his breath. I rounded the corner and stepped into the kitchen quietly, unnoticed by both of them.

"Mr. Daae, I don't know, this thing is really hard!" Meg laughed, leaning over the counter with a shiny object in her hand. "It's not working for me. You're going to have to do it."

"You just have to put some force into it," Dad complained good-naturedly. He stepped behind her and guided her hand- I looked at the counter and realized they were cutting a pizza with a pizza cutter. Dad had a firm grip on Meg's wrist, and her head was tilted slightly, leaving her neck completely bare on one side. My breath quickened uneasily.

"What are you guys doing?" I finally asked, clearing my throat uncertainly. "Meg, I- didn't even know you were here-"

"Oh, hey Christine!" Meg replied brightly. She jumped and took a step away from Dad; he cleared his throat too, and I felt sweat break out on my forehead. Why did she look so guilty? Why did he touch her, but not me? "Are you ready to go?" Meg asked.

"Um, yeah, let me just go get my bag-"

"Meg, maybe while she's at your house, you can try to rub off on her," Dad suddenly boomed authoritatively. It wasn't the same man who had just been laughing and unnecessarily helping my best friend use a pizza cutter - this was the Dad I was used to everyday, imperious, cold... impossible to reach. "Christine has been acting up lately, and I almost didn't let her go tonight. Maybe she'll pick up some things from you, hmm?" He smiled at her and patted her shoulder; she nodded weakly and he walked away.

I felt my cheeks burn, and I couldn't look at her face. Why did he have to humiliate me like that in front of my friend? Wasn't it bad enough that I had to walk in on them in an uncomfortably awkward yet completely innocent situation? Wasn't it enough that I looked the way I did next to Meg and her sparkling blue eyes and beautiful skin? Wasn't that enough?

"I'll just wait outside for you," Meg murmured, slipping past me. "I'll be in the car."

The ride to Meg's house was silent and awkward, and the atmosphere was heavy with uncertainty about what I had just walked in on in the kitchen. I wasn't exactly sure what to think or say... they hadn't been doing anything wrong, had they? He was just helping her use a pizza cutter. But then why did she jump away nervously when I announced my presence? Why did Dad clear his throat and step away?

"What were you guys doing in the kitchen?" I breathed, stroking the black canvas of my backpack.

"We were just cutting a pizza, Christine," she replied softly, keeping her eyes on the road. She turned her head towards me suddenly and the way she blinked, the way she _stared_ at me without a drop of the carefree attitude the normal Meg had scared me. "That's it; just forget about it."

I didn't have a choice but to forget about it. What could I do? Nothing. We drove up to her house and I unloaded my things inside. "Mom's got a date," Meg giggled, back to normal, the bright, scheming light in her eyes again. "He's a guidance counselor at the middle school and I think he wears a hairpiece. She told me not to wait up, isn't that so weird?" She scrunched up her nose and I laughed along, I tried to concentrate on the idea of Nurse Giry having a hot date all night long. I just felt uncomfortable.

"So..." Meg smiled. "Should we go upstairs, watch Selena and pig out on junk food all night?"

Things normal-ed out, if that can be said. I forgot about the stupid pizza cutter and Meg came back to normal, joking and teasing me, pretending to dance and sing like Selena, the stupid movie we watched nearly nearly every Friday night. Besides, it wasn't like Dad adoring Meg was anything new... he had always been like that, as far back as I can remember. It wasn't the first awkward situation I had found them in, and it probably wouldn't be the last.

Meg's phone rang and she muted the television to answer it. I rolled on my stomach and caressed the pink line that ran across my hand lovingly. The one on my thigh still stung when I moved it, and I longed to make another. I felt buzzing by my side and I realized it was my own phone ringing. Nobody but Dad and Meg ever called me; I wondered what he wanted.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Follower of Christ," chuckled a deep voice on the other end of the line. "How is your sleepover?"

I bolted upright and Meg shot me a funny look. I gestured to the phone and quickly slunk out of the room and into the bathroom. "Erik?" I breathed anxiously, locking the door behind me. "I- um, what-"

"Tell me how much you've thought about me this week," he demanded confidently. "Have you cut yourself again?"

"No," I whispered weakly. "I don't know what you... wait, how did you know I was at a sleepover?"

"Because you have sleepovers with Meg every Friday," he replied in a bored voice, like he was telling me it had rained the day before. "It's a long-standing tradition of yours, just like that habit of thinking self-deprecating thoughts all the time. You do that a lot, don't you Christine?" His voice deepened and became gentler, soothing, and a chill ran up my spine.

"Why are you calling me?" I asked, trying to stop my voice from trembling.

"I want to you see you," he teased, chuckling again. "Follower of Christ. I'm sure you can think of an excuse to ditch the slumber party. I'll meet you down the street in thirty minutes, don't be late."

"_Christine!_" Knock, knock, knock! I jumped and snapped my phone shut. "Yeah?" I called back. "I-I'll be right out, Meg, I-"

"Christine, this is really important!" Meg whined through the door. "I have to tell you something! Hurry up!" I heard her feet thump back into her room and I pressed my hands to my forehead. What was going on? Erik, the man I barely knew from a field trip to a city museum, wanted to see me? Who _was_ he? I didn't even know him! But _why_ did he have the same voice as that voice in my head, and _why_ was there even a voice in my head to begin with?

I left the bathroom and walked into Meg's room, almost like I was in a daze. I furrowed my brow in confusion; she was half dressed, strutting around the bedroom in her panties and a t-shirt. "Christine!" she squeaked when she saw me. "Christine, I have to ask you the biggest favor in the history of favors. Please help me," she begged, batting her pretty cornflower blue eyes at me. "Please, my best friend for ever, please?"

"What is it?" I snapped dizzily. I walked over to her bed and sat down, trying to take deep breaths to stop the dizziness.

"Christine, remember I told you about the guy from dance class?" she beamed. I nodded in confusion. "Well, he just called me and told me his parents are out of town this weekend and he wants me to come over!" She grabbed my hands and bit her lip excitedly. "Isn't that great? Oh Christine, would you hate me if I went? Please, Christine, I need you to cover for me, I _have_ to see him, and I should be back before Mom gets home-"

"Sure, Meg," I cleared my throat and looked up at her with a smile. "It's ok, really, go ahead. I'll cover, I'll talk to your Mom if she calls. It's ok, I don't mind."

"Christine, are you serious?" she beamed and jumped off the bed. "Thank you so much, I'll love you forever-" She leaned over and kissed my cheek, then went back to rummaging through her closet to find something to wear. She slipped on a denim mini skirt and a cardigan over the t-shit she was wearing. She checked her watch, adjusted her makeup in the mirror, and turned to face me again. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," I answered honestly. I checked my own watch and smiled widely. "You better hurry up, you don't want to be late, Meg."

"You're right," she fretted, grabbing her keys and handbags. She reached way into the back of her sock drawer and pulled out a small foil packet. I blanched when I realized what it was. "Do you think this is it?" she breathed, fingering the condom anxiously. "Do you think he'll want to do it?"

"Meg, that's a sin," I whispered. "You can't-"

"I know, I know, you're right," she mumbled, storing in back beneath her socks. "We won't do that, we'll just hang out. Ok, Christine, I'm leaving now. Thank you so much, I love you!" She came over and gave me another kiss before scrambling out the door, down the stairs, and outside into her car.

I waited two minutes, and then checked my watch again. I had fifteen minutes.


	9. Chapter 9

_I'm pulling you closer _

_But you keep telling me no. _

_You say you don't like it _

_But I know you're a liar, _

_'Cause when we kiss _

_Ooh... fire. _

_-Babyface, Fire_

The wind ruffled the dress I had borrowed from Meg and raised goosebumps to my ghostly white legs. I could expose them at night, without any dangerous UV rays to worry about. I looked back and forth on the quiet, residential street, but all I could see was darkness. I pushed my glasses up my nose nervously and pulled my cardigan around myself tighter. The foil packet crinkled in my pocket.

_"For everyone is a hypocrite and an evildoer, Christine,"_ the voice suddenly purred in my ear. It sounded like a caress. _"You honor me with your lips, but your heart is far from me..."_

"Stop it," I whispered, shaking my head like I was shooing away a bee. "Stop talking to me, I don't want to hear you-"

_"Christine,"_ chuckled the voice, _"Oh Christine, let me come in unto thee, my beloved, fairest among women-"_

"Please stop," I begged, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. The wind breezed by me again and I felt a chill climb up from my toes to my scalp. Why did I wear a dress? We lived in the North, even further from the city, and it was always cold during the fall. I curled my toes inside of my flats and shoved my hands deep into my pockets.

"You look cold."

"_Stop_ talking to me!" I muttered, shaking my head again. "I don't want to hear you, you're not real, you're just in my head-"

"Am I?"

I suddenly realized this voice was coming from outside, not inside of my head. I spun around and jumped when I saw the large shadow standing in front of me. It laughed richly and stepped forward, so I saw a slightly less blurry image of the man from the museum bathroom- Erik. He was wearing another dark sweater and jeans, exactly like he had been wearing the day I first saw him. He was laughing at me. I hated being laughed at.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked, unable to keep the mirth from his voice. I could hear him smiling. "Imaginary friend?"

"Nobody," I whispered nervously. "I was just talking to myself."

"Really," he kept chuckling and reached forward to touch a white kink of my hair. "Follow me," he instructed suddenly, spinning on his heel and heading around the corner purposefully.

I followed blindly, trying to ignore the fact that I didn't know this man, that nobody knew where I was, that it was dark and anything could happen to me. I felt terrified, but it was thrilling, it was exhilarating, like something that would happen in a movie, and I felt like someone like Meg. Sneaking out at night because somebody wanted to be with me. Who cared if he happened to be a stranger?

We came upon a dark sedan parked right on the curb. Erik confidently clicked the doors open and slid into the driver's seat; he pointed to the passenger's seat and beckoned to me. "Get in," he called, slamming his door shut. I climbed in obediently. "Put on my sweater, I don't need you getting sick tonight."

I found the sweater he was talking about in the backseat and pulled it on silently. It was warm and it smelled like after shave and lemon. Dad smelled lemony too. Erik started the car, and just like that, we were driving down the street and away from Meg's house. Panic finally seized me.

"Wait-" I blurted, turning in my seat to face him. He was stoically calm and he didn't give any sign of having heard me. "Wait, where are we going? I don't know, I- I don't think this is a good idea, if anyone finds out where I am I'll be in huge trouble with my dad-"

"Shhhh, Christine," Erik soothed, patting my bare thigh with his large, warm palm. "Just relax. Nobody's going to find out where you are, trust me. Just relax."

"Where are we going?" I whispered.

"To my home."

"Are you going to kill me?" I wondered aloud, finally sitting back in my seat and buckling in my seatbelt. I suddenly felt very light and carefree; a smile even tugged at the corner of my mouth. Dr. House was right- I _had_ to be psychotic.

"Nope," Erik replied easily. "I'm going to save you. I'll be your white knight, what do you think about that?"

The smile finally won and I looked away bashfully. "Save me? From what?"

"What would you like me to save you from?" he asked conversationally. He turned on the radio to a smooth jazz station and adjusted the heat. "School? Homework? Meg? Your father?"

"How do you know about all of that?" I breathed, feeling my pulse quicken. "Who _are_ you?"

"All in good time, Christine," he replied soothingly. "You'll find out soon enough. Now why don't you try to take a nap, hmm? We've got quite a drive ahead of us." I turned to face him and I saw what looked like a shadow of a smile, and again I realized that his face, as blurry as it appeared to me, seemed to be two different tones, like he had forgotten his sunblock on one side... "Our wistful little star was far too high," he hummed, rummaging through the backseat with one hand and keeping the other on the steering wheel.

"What are you doing?" I murmured, gazing at him warily.

He handed me an embroidered handkerchief and said thoughtfully, "Here, I just bought this cologne in the store the other day. What do you think of it?"

I leaned forward and inhaled, but I shook my head in displeasure. "It's so sweet," I replied. His outline felt even blurrier than usual, and I felt the same under water feeling that always seemed to follow the voice in my head. "It's too... sweet," I mumbled in confusion. My eyes slipped shut, but I tried to force them open again. "Wow, this sure is some strong cologne..." I blinked at him in confusion, but all I could see were shadows, and everything was muffled, so all I could hear was Erik humming faintly.

"A teardrop kissed your lips and so did I..."

I woke up with a massive headache. There was a drumming in my ear, a banging or something, and it just kept on, and on, and on, and I felt like my head would split open from the awful pain. I groaned and wriggled my toes around, but I could barely feel them. I wriggled some more- legs, thighs, fingers, torso- and I realized that I was laying down in a very soft bed.

"You're up," Erik noticed, sounding pleased. His voice sounded far away, like it was coming from another room. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and moaned in pain. "I know, you must have a headache. Try not to make any sudden movements, you'll just make it worse. Here, I'm putting two migraine pills and a glass of water on the table next to you; take them and try to go back to sleep. It's still early." I heard something being set down gently, then footsteps walking away.

Keeping my eyes shut, I felt around on the table, grabbed the pills and chased them down with a gulp of water. As the water trickled down my throat, I felt a strange stiffness in my right arm; I tried to move it, but it wouldn't budge. My ears were ringing, and suddenly, I felt my body start to tremble, all over, uncontrollably, until I accidentally spilled the water all over the bed.

I heard Erik's voice, very faintly come near me, and I felt him grab my head firmly. He was talking to me, but the ringing had gotten so loud that I couldn't hear anything else. My head literally felt like it was splitting open, like someone was driving a hammer into my skull, then I felt wetness on my face, and I realized that I was crying. "W-w-w-w-what's happen-n-n-ing?" I stammered in terror. "W-w-w-w-w-why-"

"Christine!" Erik's voice was louder now, he was raising his voice over the ringing. "Stop talking, you'll bite your tongue. You're having a seizure, Christine, just try to keep calm and stay still until it passes-"

"S-s-s-s-seizure?" I cried. My teeth chattered, and Erik grabbed my jaw and held it still. I slowly felt the stiffness in my arm fade away, and after another several moments, the trembling in my body turned to shivers as cold air reached the sheen of sweat that covered me. I was still crying.

"There you go," Erik murmured, finally letting go of my head and bringing his hand to my temple, still throbbing dully. "All done now, see? It wasn't that bad, was it?"

_"And he came and took her by the hand... and immediately, the fever left her,"_ purred the voice. I finally opened my eyes and saw the dark shadow of Erik hovering over me, collecting the spilt glass of water and dabbing the wet spot with a napkin. My toes still felt numb.

A thought suddenly occurred to me as Erik checked my forehead with the back of his hand in a business like manner. He strode away with the empty glass, and the sound of his purposeful footsteps across what sounded like wood floors comforted me. I thought of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the angels that appeared to Abraham, and I thought of the burning bush, and I thought of Doubting Thomas. Was that what the voice in my head was telling me?

"Christine, close your eyes and go to sleep," Erik ordered, by my side again. "Stop daydreaming, and just relax. The medicine won't work unless you let it, and we don't want you to give yourself another seizure."

_"A little sleep, a little slumber, Christine. Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God: I will strengthen you."_

The second time I woke up, my headache had thankfully disappeared. I felt weak, like I did when I skipped lunch or breakfast, and I could feel my hands trembling. I slowly opened my eyes, but I couldn't see anything- the room I was in was pitch black. I tried to do a mental inventory of where I was- the same soft bed, the same night table next to me, and a faint light coming from somewhere to the right. I gingerly sat up and shivered; it was cold.

"You're up again," Erik was suddenly at my side, calmly feeling my forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Better," I mumbled, trying to ignore the tingling that started when he touched my forehead. An image of Jesus, naked and whipped flashed across my mind and I shook my head to clear it away. "I feel better. My head doesn't hurt anymore."

"I'm sorry for drugging you," he apologized politely, sitting on the edge of the bed and opening a drawer in the night table. "But you wouldn't have relaxed or fallen asleep without it. You might still feel dizzy for the rest of the night, but you'll be better in a couple of hours. Now, aside from your head, how do you feel?" He took my chin in his hand and brought my face close to his; suddenly, I gasped and reached forward.

"You're wearing a mask!" I exclaimed. He grabbed my wrist before I could touch him and held it down by my side. _That's_ why his face seemed to be two different colors- he was wearing a flesh colored mask on one side! Why would he wear a mask?

"Don't touch," he warned sternly. "Have I mentioned your eyes, skin or hair?"

I felt like he socked me in the stomach when he mentioned what an ugly freak I was. Who was I fooling? Did I actually think he took my white hair to be Nordic blonde? My translucent skin to be no more than vigorous application of sunblock? How could he _not_ notice my freaky, crooked eyes?

I saw his mouth shift, and I realized he was smiling. "I hurt your feelings," he said gently, cupping my cheek in his warm hand. "Come on now, don't be sensitive. We all have our imperfections, I'm just able to cover mine up more than you are. So tell me- how do you feel?"

I swallowed and looked down. "I feel a little dizzy," I admitted. "And my hands are a little shaky, but besides that I feel ok. What happened earlier?"

"You had a seizure," he replied nonchalantly, now on the floor looking through the night table drawer. "Don't worry, you'll be fine, I promise you. Now why don't you lay down and try to relax?"

He sounded so convincing, and his voice reminded me so much of the voice in my head, I just couldn't help but listen to him. I didn't really feel like I was in danger, and it wasn't like I met him on the internet or anything, it wasn't like he was a stalker- maybe he just liked me because we both had imperfections, right? Right?

"Oh no!" I suddenly cried, jolting upright. "What time is it? I'm going to be in so much trouble! I have to get home right now, oh God- I have to get back to Meg's house, we'll _both_ be in trouble if I'm not there-"

"I'm not going to tell you again," Erik intoned, pushing me back on the pillow with one hand while the other kept searching. "Relax. It's still early, you'll be back before anyone notices you're gone. Let me worry about the time, and just..." I jumped when his hand suddenly came to rest on my thigh... and my breath quickened when I felt him slip it under Meg's dress. "Just relax, alright?" he murmured.

"I don't even know you," I whispered in confusion. "Why am I doing this? How do you... h-how do you know all of this stuff about me?" How do I know you won't kill me?

_"If you have faith and do not doubt, I will take sickness away from the midst of thee."_

What if... the voice that spoke to me was actually-

"What has God said to you now, Christine?" Erik suddenly murmured in my ear. His hand was back beneath my dress, not high enough to cause distress, but certainly high enough to start my hands and thighs trembling again. I drew in a shaky breath and the next thing I knew, he was on the bed with me.

"W-what-" I breathed, trying to push him away. I couldn't think straight, and this time it was my heart that was drumming and beating with frightening intensity. "What are you talking about? What are you doing- I- I can't, please, stop-"

"Peace, be still," Erik soothed. He smiled and asked, "Why do doubts arise in your mind?

_"And he laid his hands on her-"_

"W-who are you?" I cried. "I don't- what's going on? I don't understand, you-"

"It's ok, calm down," Erik suddenly cooed, propping himself up on his elbow and removing his hand from my thigh. I could still feel the heat from where he touched me. "You're scared, I'm sorry, I don't want to scare you. Just relax, alright? I'm not going to hurt you."

How could I tell which was the voice in my head and which was Erik's? I gratefully took in a deep gulp of air and felt soothed as Erik calmly stroked my hair. I couldn't remember the last time someone had touched me so much or so... intimately. Never. Meg sometimes liked to braid my hair and Nurse Giry took my temperature once in a while... Dad _never_ touched me.

"It's nice to be touched," I blurted. I slapped my palm to my mouth the minute I said it and squeezed my eyes shut. We had discussed this in Sunday school, the girls were told not to give out mixed signals, that was why women got raped, that was why there were so many teen pregnancies, I shouldn't have said it, because he would get the wrong idea and it would be my fault. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Listen to me, Christine," Erik said in a low voice, turning over so that each palm was on either side of me and his mouth was by my ear. "I'm twice your age, I'm three times your size. I've drugged you, and right now I am coercing you. You don't have a choice right now, I can do what I want to you and Christine-" I felt his lips brush against my jawbone and I shuddered as a delicious tingle traveled down my spine and between my legs. "Whatever happens," he breathed, "is not your fault. Do you understand me?"

"It's not my fault," I echoed. I looked at his eyes, blurry as they were to me, and nodded. "I can't stop you," I understood.

"Exactly," he whispered, gently locking his hands around my wrists and bringing them up, higher on the bed, above the pillows. "And without free will, there is no sin."

I felt a rush of apathy sweep over me, and I suddenly wished that he would kill me. What would Dad say? He probably wouldn't even notice me gone until Sunday, until it was time to wake me up for morning mass. He would be angry if he couldn't find me. He would be angry at me for making him miss church. He might not even miss church; maybe he would just go and look for me afterwards. He would be humiliated if I died with Erik, in a strange man's apartment with my wrists tied to the headboard and remnants of whatever drug Erik used to subdue me in my body. _Rape_, everyone would say- say that I was found _raped_ and murdered in the city, a poor blind albino girl with a religiously devout father, dead mother, not many friends... what a legacy I would leave behind.

"Why don't you kill me?" I whispered. "I don't mind. You can, if you want to-" He interrupted my pity party with a sudden slap across my cheek. "Ow!" I cried, wriggling beneath him furiously. "Why did you hit me? That hurt!"

"Now imagine dying," he retorted. "Shall I slap you again? Why don't I slap you to death?"

"No!" I yelled. "That's not what I meant-"

"Of course not, I know what you meant, you want a martyr's death," he rolled his eyes and climbed off the bed. "You want to die and be lamented and missed when you're dead, because you're not missed now. You want your death to punish the people you know. You _want_ to be pitied, Christine. Poor, albino, Christine. Put on your shoes." He walked out of the room purposefully and left me shivering on the bed, angry at myself, and angry at him, but especially angry at myself. He was disgusted with me. Like _every_one. Disappointed. He was going to take me home. I _hated_ myself. A stranger didn't even like me.

I put on my shoes and followed him into the kitchen, where he was shrugging into an overcoat. "You're just a pervert," I stammered angrily. "I don't even know you, you _made_ me come here, you probably kidnap girls all the time-" My speech faltered when he turned to face me with a raised eyebrow; I swallowed and started backing up nervously (he was much larger than I realized), back into the bedroom, against the bed... he followed, and I climbed onto the bed and tried to jump off on the other side, but he grabbed my ankle and tugged.

"I _made_ you come here?" he demanded, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking. I yelped and tried to kick him, but he grabbed my other ankle and I was stuck. "I'm a pervert?" He tugged my hair again and I let out a cry of frustration.

"Stop pulling my hair!" I insisted, kicking my legs as much as I could. "Get off me!"

"You _wanted_ to come with me," he hissed, yanking me down by my ankles so that my legs were hanging off the bed and the rest of me was contorted from fighting against him. "You practically _begged_ me, Christine, didn't you?" He moved his hands up to my shoulder and shook me. "Didn't you?"

"No!" I insisted, "This isn't my fault, I didn't want to come with you-"

"You're such a brat!" he snapped, turning me over so that I was lying on my stomach with my cheek pressed into the blanket. My dress had ridden up from when he pulled me down by my ankles, and when I felt the cool air breeze across my bottom, I sucked in my breath apprehensively.

SMACK! I squealed and jumped as I felt his hot palm slam itself against my behind. "OW!" I cried, trying to wriggle myself into a less vulnerable position. "You hit me again!" He didn't reply, just grabbed my hips and tugged, so that my chest was flat on the bed and my butt was raised right in front of him. SMACK! Again, I felt his hand burn against my behind, and again I felt hot tears burn my eyes, even as I suddenly felt that telltale tingling, that _other_ burning between my legs.

_Oh no_, I thought desperately. _What is wrong with me? He's going to think I want him to, he's going to rape me, but it'll be my fault because I'm so messed up that it feels good when he hits me... why do I feel like this? What's __**wrong**__ with me?_

"You like it," he suddenly murmured, letting his hand rest on my stinging behind. He started stroking me, gently, and I felt my breath quicken. "You like it when I spank you. You like to cut yourself. You like being hurt."

I wordlessly shook my head, no, no, no, trying to stop feeling the tingling even though I knew I couldn't. He pinched me and I jerked, and that pinch sent a shock wave of pleasure straight to my center. He pinched me again, and again, until I good feel my entire rear stinging, surely bright red by now. He spanked me again, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out, except this time, I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry out from pain or from pleasure.

"Beg," he whispered. "Beg me. Beg me to hurt you."

My tears finally fell freely. "Hurt me," I begged. "Please, please, hurt me."


	10. Chapter 10

_I don't know what you've done to me,  
But I know this much is true:  
I wanna do bad things with you  
I wanna do real bad things with you.  
-Jace Everett, Bad Things _

"Jesus!" My eyes flew open and I bit back a scream. But I was no longer face down on a massive dark bed. There was no longer a wide leather belt raining welts across my rear end. I could no longer hear that deep voice saying... unspeakable things to me. I was in my own house. My own room. My own bed. _What?_

I slowly shuffled out of bed and walked to my window. When I pulled up the curtains, my brow furrowed in confusion. The sun was rising, and I could see our neighbors getting into their cars and driving away. Everyone was wearing a suit and carrying coffee, like it was a work day. Like it was a school day.

I walked back to my bed and sat down. What happened this weekend? Why was I in my bed? When did I get home? Why couldn't I _remember _anything? I didn't even know what day it was. I remembered going to Meg's house on a Friday night to sleep-over. So it should be a Saturday morning, but why was I in my house and not Meg's?

And then I remembered... my breath quickened and I felt a cold sweat break out across my forehead. But that couldn't have been real. I must've dreamed it, because why would I sneak out of Meg's house to go to a stranger's house and not even tell her?

I slowly stood up and turned so that I was looking at my rear end in the mirror. I pulled up my nightgown and started to tremble when I saw the proof of what had happened. There were pink and red welts _covering_ my butt. Welts that had been left by a belt. A masked man's belt. I sat down and tried to still my trembling hands.

"Ok, Christine, calm down," I whispered to myself. "Just try to stay calm and remember what happened. Pretend you're retracing your steps, like you lost something. I'm just going to retrace my steps until I've found what I'm looking for."

I remembered Friday night clearly. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table and Dad got mad at me. He yelled at me and told me to go to my room. Why did he get mad at me? I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut tightly. It was Meg. He asked when she was coming and I didn't know. I didn't care. He did.

I called Meg and asked to spend the night at her house instead. She said sure. I waited in my room, and I waited, and I finally came out because I could hear them talking in the kitchen. I frowned. She didn't even tell me she had arrived. She went straight to Dad. They were using a pizza cutter. Dad was touching her. I remembered my anger; _why didn't he touch me_?

We went to Meg's house and then that boy called her. He wanted her to sneak out to meet him. She left me, and I... I left too. I swallowed and my hands started to shake again. Erik called me and told me to meet him outside. He asked if I hurt myself. He was _laughing_.

Beyond that, I couldn't remember clearly. I remembered snippets, bits and pieces, but I couldn't tell what was memory and what I had just dreamed. Did I even see Meg the rest of the weekend? Had I seen Dad? How did I end up in my bedroom? I grabbed my cell phone off my night table and flipped it open. I went straight to my messages and quickly composed one to Meg- _Hey, where are you?_ I sent it and bit my lip anxiously. That was nice and neutral, it didn't give away the fact that I couldn't remember half my weekend. I was just asking where she was.

My phone buzzed and I quickly opened the message. _Um, in class!! Where are you? Why aren't you here?_

In class? I closed the message and checked the date on my phone. Monday? It was Monday? I checked the time and another cold sweat broke out, this time all over my body. It was already ten! That was why the neighbors had been leaving, it _was_ a work day! If I missed another day of school, Dad would kill me.

Dad. Where was Dad? If today was Monday, that meant that yesterday was Sunday, and I certainly didn't remember going to church. Where was Dad? Had he already gone to work? Why didn't he already kill me for missing mass? Did he know I was home? I went back to my messages and frowned. There were opened messages there that I didn't remember receiving. I went to my inbox and saw messages that I didn't remember writing.

_Christine, I'm going into the city for a last minute business trip. We're going to church on Wednesday instead._ That was Dad. Well, that explained mass at least. It was dated Friday night.

_Hey Chris, thanks for covering for me last night! ;) I got your note, see you Monday!_ That was Meg. My note? What note? That was dated Saturday morning.

_Hey Dad, I'll see you when you get back. Don't forget to call Meg's mom about the pot-luck dinner next weekend. _Pot-luck dinner? Meg's mom? Had I really sent that message to Dad? I didn't remember sending any message. I didn't remember receiving any messages.

I hastily sent Meg a reply with the feeble excuse of feeling under the weather and started pacing around my room. Meg would tell the teacher I was sick and my absence would be excused. I didn't know when Dad would be back, but usually when he went out of town on his 'business trips' he was back by Monday night.

My phone buzzed again and I opened it, expecting another message from Meg. It was from Erik. _Meet me around the corner in ten minutes._ Meet him? I touched my butt and bit my lip. At least he would be able to fill in any holes- I groaned at the image in my mind- about my weekend. I dressed quickly, brushed my teeth, and covered any remaining skin up with sunblock.

He was waiting in the same sedan he had picked me up with on Friday night. "Christine," he smiled when I knocked on the window. "Climb in, darling, what are you waiting for? I'm taking you for breakfast."

----

"Who are you?" I asked bluntly as he salted his scrambled eggs.

He swallowed and looked up at me in surprise. "I'm Erik," he replied with a half smile. "Remember?"

"That's not what I mean," I frowned and crossed my arms over my chest. I was trying my best not to look like a baby. "I don't know anything about you. All I know is that your name is Erik. What happened this weekend? Why can't I remember half of it?"

He took another bite of his breakfast and looked out the window silently, like he was thinking. He rested his chin on his right hand and tilted his head in my direction thoughtfully. "Well, who would you like me to be? I can be whoever you want me to be."

I narrowed my eyes and bit my lip uncertainly. What kind of an answer was that? "No," I shook my head and forced myself not to stomp on the ground. "I don't want you to be anybody, I just want you to tell me who you are! Why are you doing this? Why do you keep calling me and showing up around me? What do you _want_?"

He sat back and crossed his arms. "You want me to tell you who I am?" he retorted dryly. "Fine. I'm a convicted felon who just got out eight weeks ago. Your father was my lawyer and he purposely lost my case and put me away for nine years. I was pissed off and I wanted revenge, so I found you. You're an easy target. You're young and insanely insecure. I got my rocks off spanking you with my belt this weekend. I drugged you more than once so you wouldn't be able to tell anyone where I live, and just so you wouldn't bother me on the way there and back. Is that what you wanted?"

I felt my jaw drop right after he said the word felon. I heard a tinkling noise and I realized it was me, banging the spoon against the saucer with my trembling hand. "That can't be true," I laughed nervously. "That's not true... is it?"

He shrugged. "You wanted a story. I don't think this was the story you wanted. Am I right?"

"What happened to your face?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

He reached under the table and I squeaked when I felt him pinch my thigh. "I was born _really_ ugly," he snapped. "Don't you have ED kids at your school? Emotionally disturbed?" He shook his head and his half smile was back. He pretended to have a tic and started jerking his body awkwardly. "D-don't ask me about the s-scar on my face, because it makes me _angry_!"

I couldn't help it and I started to laugh. He laughed too and gently took my hand. I looked up at him uncertainly. He was wearing another dark sweater and jeans and the same flesh colored mask. I couldn't even see it. "So are you really a convicted felon?"

"Want to see my prison tats?" he deadpanned. He winked and I couldn't help it, I blushed. "I'll show you them later, when we're alone again."

"Later!" I squeaked, pulling back my hand to wring it nervously. "I can't see you again, you're a _felon_! A felon my dad sent to _jail_! Are you kidding me? I'll be grounded for the next two years after he finds out I didn't go to school today, can you imagine what he would do if he found out about you?" Suddenly a thought struck me and I slapped a hand to my mouth. "Oh no. Did we- I mean, did you-"

"When I fuck you, you'll remember," he promised with a pat on my hand. "All I did was spank you. Are you going to lie and tell me you didn't like it?"

"Well, I don't even remember-" I stammered nervously.

"Let me remind you," he purred. "I pushed you onto my bed face down and pulled up your dress. I slapped you with my hand, and your skin turned red immediately. It was the sexiest thing I've seen in _years_, Christine. I did it again, and again, and again, and every single time, you made the most tempting noises, these squeals..." He trailed his fingers around my wrist and half smiled at me. "I thought I was going to come right there, in my jeans. I pulled off my belt and you started to moan when you heard me snap it. And when I whipped you with it, you _screamed_."

I tried to steady my breathing, but I felt too lightheaded- I had to take in deep gulps of air. I crossed my legs uncomfortably, but he noticed when I squeezed them together. "You loved it," he murmured. "I could see it, I could see through your panties, how wet you were."

"I can't-" I whispered, shoving out of the booth and running towards the door. I never felt as unsettled before in my life the way I felt unsettled with Erik. I felt tears burning the back of my eyes and I forced myself to blink them away. _Go home, never speak to him again, and pray a Rosary. Pray for forgiveness._ What he said stuck out my mind though, I just couldn't stop myself from thinking about what he said. I remembered the seminar about internet safety, thinking that no one would ever sexualize or proposition me. Maybe I was wrong.

"Why can't you?" asked his voice from behind me. I started walking away, around to the back of the diner, and he followed me. "You _liked_ it."

"B-b-because!" I spluttered. "You're a _felon_, my dad put you in _jail_! He would kill me if-"

"Where's your dad now, Christine?" he asked cooly, leaning against the side of the building. "He hasn't come chasing you down yet, has he?"

"He's on a business trip," I sniffed. "He's out of town, he'll be back tonight."

"A business trip?" Erik repeated softly. "Really? Does he go on 'business trips' a lot?"

"Sometimes," I muttered. "Why are you asking me this?"

"You were gone all weekend," he murmured. "I could have killed you. You missed school today. You're with me again. Nobody knows where you are. I could kill you right now, and nobody would know. What a concerned parent your father is."

I swallowed and looked away, trying to push what he said out of my head. I couldn't. Why _hadn't_ Dad noticed that I was missing all weekend? Didn't Meg wonder when she got home and I wasn't there? What else could I do without anyone noticing?

"The cuts on your leg and your hand," Erik continued. "Why hasn't your father noticed that you cut yourself? What if you cut too deep? How long do you think it would take him to notice? Until the next Sunday, when it's time to go to church?" He stepped closer and my trembling increased. "Because sometimes it seems like that's all he cares about, doesn't it, Christine? Going to church every week? And look at him, he missed this week's mass because of a 'business trip.' That seems very hypocritical, doesn't it?"

I bit my lip and shrugged, because I didn't know what to say. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right that Dad could go to the city whenever he wanted and make us both miss church when he forced me to go even when I was sick. Why didn't he even mention the cut on my hand? He didn't even notice me. I laughed nervously and looked down. "Sometimes, I wonder if Dad would even notice if I just disappeared one day," I whispered with another nervous giggle. "He would still probably ask Meg to come over for sleepovers on Friday," I added bitterly.

"Why does he _always_ touch her, and never touch you?" Erik purred in my ear. My back was pressed against the wall, and he was less than an inch away from me. "Doesn't it seem like he wishes he had a daughter like Meg instead of you?"

The tears were burning my eyelids again and my lip had started to tremble. I had to stop biting it. "He likes her better than me," I finally sniffled as the tears started running down my cheeks. "He doesn't even like me at all. He never talks to me or anything, sometimes I think he- he hates me."

Erik gently wiped away my tears and cooed in my ear. "I know," he whispered soothingly. "It's not fair. It's his fault, you know," he added, holding me at arm's length. I sniffed loudly and he dabbed at my nose with a tissue magically conjured out of thin air. "If it weren't for him, I never would have come looking for you. You wouldn't have those ugly welts on your bottom now. This is _his_ fault."

"You're right," I whispered, nodding. I blew my nose and laughed and cried at the same time. "I'm so pathetic. The only person who's ever talked to me besides Meg is only doing it to get revenge on my dad. That's pretty bad, isn't it?" I looked up at him dully.

"I'm not just here because of your father," he replied in a low voice. He slowly inched his hand up, from my stomach, to skim over my breasts, and finally to rest on my throat... around my neck. Tightly. "I like to hurt you," he whispered, "and you like to be hurt."

"I do," I breathed, as his grip around my throat got tighter and tighter.

"Your father doesn't deserve you, Christine," Erik insisted, turning my head so that my cheek was pressed against the rough brick of the back wall. He pressed harder and I whimpered when I felt the gravel scratch my skin. "This can be between you and me. I want to make you feel good. What does your father do? He can't make you feel like this, can he?" He chuckled and I suddenly felt his hand pressing between my legs.

"Take me to your apartment again," I whispered.


	11. Chapter 11

_So I want to warn you laddie, _

_Though I think you're perfectly swell, _

_that my heart belongs to Daddy... _

_'cause my daddy, he treats it so well. _

_-Cole Porter, My Heart Belongs To Daddy_

Erik drugged me again on the way to his house. And again, he tricked me with the rag trick- he offered it to me, soaked, and asked me what I thought of his new cologne with a teasing grin. I crossed my arms and raised my eyebrow; "I'm not falling for that again," I declared.

He laughed and threw in it the back seat. "I know you won't, I know." He turned to look at me again and frowned. "Christine, you have something in your nose," he turned away with a faint look of disgust that reminded me of Dad and I covered my nose in mortification. He sighed and grabbed a tissue box from the back seat. "Here," he said. "Have a tissue."

And thus, he knocked me out again. There was nothing in my nose. Only the tissue.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that he lived in the city, though. I could hear the traffic from his street facing windows, and his type of apartment didn't exist upstate, where I lived. He lived in a _loft_; no, there was nothing as glamorous where we lived.

I woke up the same way I woke up the last time- in his bed with a splitting headache. He calmly handed me two migraine pills and a glass of water, instructed me to sleep, and disappeared into the kitchen. In another minute, I was out, only this time, I dreamt.

_"The eye that mocks a father, that scorns obedience... will be eaten by vultures,"_ whispered the voice in my head. I was in a dark room, with absolutely no light and a draft that brought the hair on my arms to stand up. I tried to move, but something was holding me back; I looked down, and saw ropes wrapped around my body.

_ "Christine,"_ the voice called, almost like it was looking for me,_ "Christine!"_

"Here I am," I breathed. "_Where_ am I?"

_"Take off your shoes,"_ the voice instructed, _"for the place where you are standing-"_

"... is holy ground," I finished in a whisper. "Who are you?"

_"I am the God of your father, Christine,"_ the voice chuckled ominously. I saw a light slowly begin creeping into the room, and I unconsciously backed up, until I felt my back press against a wall. When the voice mentioned Dad, I felt resentment bubble up inside of me, and I couldn't help but scoff.

_"A father has compassion on his children, Christine," _the voice pressed.

"Not mine!" I snapped petulantly. "My dad hates me."

_"Endure hardship as discipline. What child is not disciplined by his father? Listen to your father, who gave you life, and do not resent his rebuke."_

"Who is Erik?" I suddenly wondered, finally beginning to struggle against the ropes tying me up. "Will he kill me? What does he want?Should I trust him?"

The little light in the room begin fading, until it was finally just as dark as it was when the voice started talking to me. There was only silence, and an off mildewy smell that came from the damp walls and floor. I pushed against the ropes harder, and suddenly, they fell off of me and onto the floor with a _thud_. I held my breath for a moment, waiting for something, but there was still silence. And then-

_"The Lord disciplines those he loves."_

"Erik!" I cried, waking with a start and sitting up in bed.

"Hello, I'm in the kitchen," he called. "Are you awake this time, or are you still dreaming?" I heard his shoes tap on the floor and he appeared in the doorway, peering at me curiously. I blinked and exhaled deeply, then relaxed against the pillow. "Good morning, Snow White. Did you have a nice nap?"

"No," I mumbled, turning over and curling my legs under the blanket. "I had a bad dream."

"I hope it wasn't a nightmare about me."

"Not really," I replied under my breath. "What time is it? I should be going home. Dad will be angry."

He pinched my forearm and I jerked and squeaked involuntarily. "I'm not taking you home yet," he said matter of factly. "Come into the kitchen with me." He reached down and squeezed my thigh before walking away.

"Will you please stop drugging me?" I asked crankily as I followed him. "I keep waking up with headaches. I won't tell anyone where you live, I promise."

"Be quiet," he replied. He turned around and smiled at my shocked face. "Chat, chat, chat, chat, you certainly are a chatterbox, aren't you?" He leaned forward and kissed my forehead, and I frowned at how well it worked to appease me. "Take out your cellphone, I want you to call your father."

I stopped with my hand in my back pocket and swallowed nervously. "Why do you want me to call Dad?"

"To tell him you will be coming home late tonight," he replied. "Here, I've taken the liberty of writing down some bullet points to remind you of what you're telling him." He pushed a pad of paper towards me and ushered me into the bar stool. _Stayed late at school, joined '_' club..._ Those were just some of his bullet points. I looked up and shook my head.

"I can't tell Dad that," I said anxiously. "He won't believe me."

"Yes he will," Erik replied immediately. He glanced at his watch and touched my hand. "Look, it's three thirty right now. He's still at work and you'll have just gotten out of school. All you have to do is call him up, hey Dad, what's up, tell him you've joined some new club at school, and that you'll be staying at the school very late. That's all. I promise you he'll believe you."

"But he's friends with Meg's mom," I fussed. "She's the nurse at my school, they'll find out I wasn't there today-"

"Christine," he snapped, "do you really think Meg's mother checks your attendance every day? She does not _care_ about you that much, and your father will _not _call her to double check this! Does he _ever_ call, Christine? He didn't call you this weekend, did he?"

"But... this is lying," I insisted, trying to stop my lower lip and hands from trembling. "It's not right. I can't lie to him."

"Is what you're doing right now any different?" Erik pointed out. "He doesn't know you're here with me, does he? He doesn't know where you were this weekend, does he? You have no problem lying to your father, Christine," he scoffed. "Don't pretend here, you've been lying before you ever met me!"

"That's not true!" I cried. "It's only _because_ I met you that I've been lying to him! I didn't even _meet_ you, you- you stalked me! And now you're making me lie to my dad all the time!"

"And that field trip?" he roared. "Who made you lie about that? Was that Meg's fault? Everything is somebody else's fault, isn't it, Christine? Just make the damn call!"

"No!" I yelled. "I don't feel right, I'm not going to lie to him, it's wrong!" I pushed myself out of the bar stool and stormed back into his bedroom. I couldn't stop the trembling. I heard Erik's footsteps following me and I covered my eyes with my hands. Haha. Maybe if I couldn't see him, he wouldn't see me.

"He lies to you," Erik murmured, suddenly right behind me again. "He lies to you all the time. He counts on your blind trust and puppy dog devotion to him, that's why he keeps doing it. He knows he'll get away with it. Come with me, come back to the kitchen," he gently put his arm around my shoulders and guided me back to my chair. "Look, I want to show you something." He pushed a manila envelope my way and slowly pulled out what looked like glossy photo paper. He turned the first one over and presented it to me.

"That's Dad," I whispered, ghosting my fingers over the image of my father crossing an intersection. It looked like a normal picture, it almost even had an artistic touch to it. There was just one thing that stood out: he was smoking.

"Smoking is such a nasty habit, Christine," Erik whispered in my ear. "Isn't that what he always tells you? He's never smoked a day in his life, isn't that right?" He silently put the photo away and passed me another one. It was Dad and a group of men I recognized from his law firm, and they were all seated around a table, laughing, drinking, and smoking. I swallowed and looked down at my feet. There was a stripper giving Dad a lap dance.

"So, don't think of this as lying," Erik said softly. "Just think of this as repaying him what he's been giving you for years. Besides, it's not like you're really doing anything wrong, is it? This is just what he deserves, Christine. Make the call." He sat down in the bar stool opposite mine and pushed the pad of paper my way. I pulled out my phone wordlessly.

It was bad to lie, but since Dad did it first, didn't that make it a little bit better? Wasn't I a little justified? Besides, teenagers were supposed to lie, and cheat, and do things impulsively, it was just natural. I never gave Dad a day of trouble in my life. It was only right that he finally be given a dose of his own medicine. Wasn't it?

"Hi Dad," I said softly. "No, I'm still at school. N-no, I didn't miss the bus again, I'm staying after for a new club I joined. I'm going to be here pretty late. Is it ok if I come home late tonight? It's- t-that's ok? Oh... ok then, bye." I clicked the phone shut and silently let it rest on the countertop. "I guess you were right," I whispered. "He didn't even ask. He just said ok, and he had work to do."

Erik didn't say anything, just silently stood up and took my hand. He led me back into his bedroom and sat us both down on the bed. "It's alright, Christine," he soothed, stroking the white steel wool on my head like I was a dog. I still hadn't forgotten how nice it felt just to be touched; I felt myself relax almost instantly. "See, I told you about him," Erik murmured, moving his hand from my hair down to my back. "He doesn't even care... just relax."

"Will you kiss me?" I whispered suddenly, avoiding his face. "Please?"

He moved closer and I jumped when I felt his hand trail under my shirt. "You want me to kiss you?" he murmured in my ear, leaning down and biting the lobe. I squirmed and my breathing quickened. "Why do you want me to kiss you?"

"I've never been kissed before," I breathed. Dad would have a heart attack if he could see me now, I thought with a tiny jolt of panic. I shook the panic away, and when I thought of Dad seeing me again, I felt a sick pleasure run through my body. I almost wished I could take a picture, I thought angrily, and shove it in his face. Erik was right- I was only doing to Dad exactly what he deserved. Maybe _this_ would grab his attention?

"What's the matter with you that nobody's ever kissed you?" Erik taunted me as his bites became rougher. "Why hasn't _anyone_ wanted to kiss you yet?"

"Because they're scared of me at school," I replied hopelessly. "Nobody talks to me, nobody _wants_ to even look at me-"

"You make them uncomfortable," he said as his fingers gently began pinching my sides. "Your skin, your hair, those _eyes_-"

I bit my lip and looked down to hide my freaky, damp eyes from him. Erik just had this way about him... of making me feel like I was constantly being socked in the stomach. "It's not my fault," I whispered. "I can't help it, I can't stop it when they move back and forth. I wish they didn't, but there's nothing I can do about it."

"Do they make fun of you at school?" he murmured, hands back to stroking my hair again.

I nodded and forced myself not to cry. "Sometimes," I sniffed. "Not as much, because most of my classmates know me by now. They just ignore me. When I was little, it was really bad; I don't think anyone had ever seen someone like me before."

"Tell me about it," Erik encouraged. "What did they say?"

"They used to call me the Ghost," I said in a wavery voice. "They called me Casper. During recess, if I wanted to play with anyone, they would pretend they couldn't see me because I was invisible." I shrugged and quickly wiped the corner of my eye with my sleeve. "After a while, I just stopped trying to play with them. I couldn't spend a lot of time outside anyway."

"What about your father?" Erik wondered. "What did he do?"

"I told Dad that the other kids were mean to me," I whispered, vividly remembering walking home from the bus stop in a hat and long sleeves while the rest of my classmates laughed at me behind my back. "I told him that they called me names and that they wouldn't let me play with them during recess, and," I shrugged again, "he told me, 'You can't expect everyone in this world to like you, Christine.' And he told me to just ask them again. So the next day I asked them if I could play soccer with them, and one boy pushed me. That's when I stopped asking. I stopped telling Dad too."

Erik didn't say anything, and I appreciated it. He just sat there and stroked my hair, and I felt myself relax again. It felt nice to know that somebody was listening to me, and it felt nice not to hear any of the psycho-babble I usually got from the school counselors; no 'sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me.' I didn't mind the sticks and the stones, I knew that by now. But words were awful.

"You like to be hurt because it puts you in control of your own pain," Erik finally said. "You can't control what people say about you, and you can't control how much they hurt you. But if you're the one hurting yourself..."

"I can make it stop whenever I want to," I finished.

He turned me to face him and took my chin in his hand. "Listen to me, Christine. You can always say stop."

I nodded, and then he slapped me.

My cheek still throbbed when I finally got home later that night. When I pulled down the passenger seat mirror in Erik's car and examined the faint swelling and discoloration, Erik squeezed my hand and shook his head. "He won't see it, Christine," he said quietly. "Nobody will notice. You know he won't."

I closed the mirror uneasily and experimentally prodded myself. I winced; it stung and I felt tears prick my eyes. "Why doesn't he notice?" I wondered aloud, not just meaning my puffed up cheek. "He doesn't notice anything. When I say hello to him, he just ignores me sometimes. It's- well, it's nice to be noticed," I finished, glancing at Erik out of the corner of my eye. _Even if it is by you._

"He hardly cares about you, Christine," Erik said matter of factly. "He doesn't."

"How do you know that?" I muttered.

"I told you I knew him years ago, didn't I? Just trust me. Go inside now and look at him straight in the eye, and if he asks you what happened to your face, I'll never bother you again. But if he doesn't, and I know he won't, well, that just proves what we both know, doesn't it?"

Erik was just a few feathers short of a duck, that's all there was to it. And the only reason I spent any time at all with him was because he was stalking me, and who knew what he would do if I resisted his advances? He might even try to kill Dad. Dad was lucky I selflessly appeased a madman during my spare time to save his life.

"Dad? I'm home," I called softly as I locked the door behind me. I glanced at the clock in the hall and gulped nervously; it was exactly nine o clock at night. What club lasted until nine? I hung up my jacket in the coat closet and made my way down the hall and up the stairs to the bedrooms. I could faintly hear the TV from Dad's room, and I squared my shoulders and quickened my pace. I decided to tell Dad everything. Erik was clearly unwell, and I couldn't risk spending anymore time with him. I would tell Dad exactly what happened, and he wouldn't be angry, and Erik would leave me alone, and I'm sure everything would be fine.

I knocked firmly on Dad's door and took a deep breath. A woman's voice on the television laughed and said something, and a deep voice replied. I heard footsteps and then Dad opened the door, shirtless. He looked taken aback to see me.

"Christine?" he said, scratching his head and closing the door slightly. "What are you doing here?"

I blinked and had to remember to shut my mouth. "Well I- I just got home, Dad," I replied, feeling foolish. "Weren't you... weren't you expecting me?"

"Oh," he replied blandly. "I just assumed you were spending the night at Meg's. Ok. Well, there's some leftover pasta in the refrigerator if you're hungry. Thanks for checking in," he patted my head and smiled quickly. "Good night." And he closed the door.

_Leftover pasta? Thanks for checking in?_ I stormed into my room, fuming. He wasn't even waiting for me! He didn't even know where I was! I stopped and stared at the crucifix on my wall and suddenly Jesus' helpless expression as he pleaded with God to save him disgusted me. _I_ disgusted me.

The hallway was pitch black when I marched through it purposefully. I snapped on the kitchen lights and took one more look behind me, to see if Dad would come out of his room. He didn't, of course, and I walked to my destination angrily. I had never felt so focused and so in control before in my life- it was exciting. I felt empowered. I didn't feel like Casper the Ghost.

I didn't pick the biggest knife, I picked the sharpest knife. I always wondered why the protagonists in horror movies usually picked the biggest knives. Just because a knife is big doesn't mean it's sharp. I wanted a sharp knife. I didn't want to have to dig again and again like the cut on my thigh. I wanted this to be quick.

I opened my palm and carefully aimed the tip of the knife against the top right corner. I sliced, and then I screamed.

I heard Dad's door open and I saw the light flood into the hallways from upstairs. I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs and I dropped the knife next to me and clutched my wrist. "Christine?" he called in concern. It was probably false concern. "What's the matter?" He stepped into the kitchen and frowned when he saw me holding my hand. "What happened?"

"I dropped the knife," I sniffed, holding out my palm to show him the blood already pooling. "It was an accident, the knife slipped-"

"Jesus," he swore, ushering me over to the sink. "Well, don't get blood all over the counter!" He turned on the faucet and held my hand under it; I winced and he shook his head. "What were you doing with that knife anyway?"

"Cutting bread." I lied.

"Cutting bread? Why aren't you eating the pasta in the fridge?"

What kind of a question was that? "I didn't want pasta," I snapped. "I wanted a sandwich. Owww," I moaned as he pulled my hand out from under the water. He grabbed some paper towels and gently pressed them into the cut on my hand. They immediately turned red.

"Dammit, Christine," Dad sighed, pressing a new bunch of towel against the cut. "This is what happens when you're not careful. This is what happens when you don't pay attention to what you're doing. There, it finally stopped bleeding so much. Stay here, let me get something to wrap it up."

I sat at the kitchen table and contemplated my fresh new cut. I felt like dripping blood all over Dad's immaculate kitchen, and then I felt bad. It was unfair to think bad things about Dad, because he was my dad after all. I was turning just as crazy as Erik.

"Here," Dad said, thrusting a cloth bandage in my face. "Wrap that around it tightly and tape it up with this." He handed me a roll of medical tape and ran his fingers through his hair sleepily. "I'm going to bed now Christine, please try not to make any more of a mess in the kitchen, alright?"

"Good night, Dad," I murmured. "Sorry for bothering you."


	12. Chapter 12

_I thought that I was in heaven  
But I was sure surprised  
Heaven help me, I didn't see  
The devil in your eyes.  
- Elvis Presley, The Devil In Disguise_

"Hey stranger!" a bubbly voice squawked in my ear. "Where've you been? I haven't seen you in ages!"

With the weariness of a lost traveler searching for water in a desert, I turned in my seat to find Meg beaming at me from the seat behind me. "Hi Meg," I sighed, turning back around. "How are you?"

"Where have you _been_?" she demanded, moving her chair next to mine. "I haven't seen you since that night you slept over my house, remember?" she giggled and I looked down. "Your Dad didn't find out, did he?" she asked, her happy face suddenly falling and turning ashen. "He doesn't know, does he?"

"Know what?" I asked sourly. "Why do you care what Dad knows?"

"Because," she breathed. "I... well, he could tell my mom," she swallowed and averted her eyes. "And then I would be _dead_."

"He doesn't know anything," I sniffed. "What did you do that night, anyway?"

She blushed mischievously and opened her mouth to reply, but the bell suddenly rang and our English teacher stepped into the classroom regally. "I'll write you a note," she whispered, jabbing my back with the eraser of her pencil.

"Everyone take out a sheet of paper," called our English teacher. "We're starting a new book today, be excited. No more writing for a while, we'll be concentrating on this novel and nothing else. The Catcher In the Rye, by J.D. Salinger. Who's heard of it?"

A handful of hands went up and I mentally prepared myself for my daily sequence of daydreams, the time when I blocked everything and everyone out and let myself imagine whatever I wanted, punctuated by random outbursts from the voice in my head. The voice had become strangely comforting to me.

"Christine!" someone barked.

My head shot up and I gulped as I realized my English teacher and the rest of the class were staring at me. Had I done something strange? Said something out loud? Turned another color? "Yes, ma'am," I replied.

"Have you heard of the book, Christine?"

"Well, I've heard the title, but I don't really know anything about it-"

"Why don't you try guessing what it's about?" she suggested, leaning back against her desk and eyeing me carefully. "What do you think the book's about? What does the title make you think of? Just try."

I swallowed, but my mouth was already dry. _Everyone _was just staring at me, like I was some sort of circus freak they paid to watch. I knew I was blushing, and I quickly looked down before anyone could focus on my eyes. "Um, I don't know," I mumbled. "Bread?"

I heard derisive laughter from some of the self-righteous know it alls in the class, but most of my classmates actually turned to my teacher to see if I was right. Of course I wasn't. My teacher tilted her head, still regarding me steadily. It was unnerving; she reminded me of Erik. "Well, it's a clever guess," she finally shrugged. "Rye is a type of bread, after all. The Catcher In the Rye is about something all of you should know something about. Adolescence."

I just hated it when teachers tried to be cool, or when they tried to act like they knew exactly what my life was like. I faced my shoes and snarled to myself. Just because I was sixteen didn't mean I had any idea about the dumb Catcher in the Rye, or that I cared about it at all. That was why I liked Erik so much. As weird as he was, at least he didn't tiptoe on tulips around me, he was upfront!

I was distracted from my angry thoughts by paper rustling by my feet. I sighed; it was the promised note from Meg. I grabbed it when the teacher wasn't looking, and quickly unfolded it, smoothing it out over my binder.

I have to admit, as much as I resented teachers assuming that they knew _anything_ about me, my English teacher was no fool. The note hadn't been on my desk five whole minutes before she smoothly cruised by my desk and collected the offending evidence without even a blip. She didn't stop class, or even give me a dirty look- she just kept walking around the class as she cooly slipped my note in her skirt pocket. I let my head drop into my hands and let out a very deep breath. Great. I quickly glanced over at Meg and saw with very very mild satisfaction that her face had gone almost as white as mine.

"Are you an _idiot_?" she hissed under her breath. "What's _wrong_ with you?"

"She just took it," I mumbled back. "There was nothing I could do."

"Did you read what was in it!"

"Yes," I gulped. "But at least _you_ didn't write your name, you wrote mine! And it was on my desk, _I'm_ the one who's going to get in trouble."

Meg tilted her head like she was thinking, and after a moment she nodded slowly. "You're right," she whispered. "I didn't write my name. Ok then. Just tell her you don't know who sent it, that's all," she shrugged, and then went back to her binder, cool as a cucumber, like nothing had happened at all. It was such a _Meg_ thing to do, to do something bad and then let me get in trouble for it.

As the end of class neared, I felt a strange sense of excited anticipation. Would my teacher send me to the principal's office? I had never been. Would she send me to guidance? I _had_ been there. Maybe she would even call Dad; that last thought excited me the most. If she called Dad, I wondered if she would tell him exactly what was in the note. In that case I was actually glad he wouldn't know Meg was the one who sent it. He would assume it was all about me.

"Well, at least you're not playing dumb," my teacher finally said once everyone (including Meg, the traitor) had left the classroom but me. I lingered behind by the pencil sharpener and steadied myself, ready for the chewing out. "I'm not going to beat around the bush either. Did you write this note?"

I faced her and for once, I didn't lower my gaze. I couldn't see her that clearly, but I could tell that she was staring at me too. "Maybe," I replied defiantly. "Why?"

"Sneaking out of houses and giving blowjobs isn't the best idea at your age," she shrugged. "Make sure you tell Meg that, alright?"

My defiant stance fell a little and my gaze faltered. "How do you know _I_ didn't write it?" I asked.

"Why do you want me to think that you did?" she shot back.

"Just because I look like a ghost doesn't mean I couldn't have written that," I snapped.

"This has been happening ever since your essay on Jesus," she said. "You spent the entire body of the essay contemplating his torture and nudity while being nailed to the cross. Never mind Christianity and his religious legacy, you left that for the conclusion. You daydream constantly, and you never pay attention in class. You never fall behind because my class is ridiculously easy, but you're close. Your tests and quizzes are always covered in doodles, like this one-" she leaned over her desk and pulled out my most recent test, "covered in handcuffs. What should I make of this Christine?"

I shrugged and began to regret my defiance a little bit. How did Erik do it all the time? I had one momentary lapse and I was ready to turn around with my tail between my leg. "I'm sorry," I smiled nervously. "I've been having a bad week. I'm sorry. Um, may I go now please? I'm going to be late for my next class."

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" she asked. "A reason you drew handcuffs on your test?"

"No," I replied quickly. "I have to go now, I'm going to be late, goodbye!" I ran through the door before she could stop me and continued until the bathroom. My palms were sweating and my head was pounding. I didn't want to go to class. I hated class. I felt like crawling into my bed and never coming out, and I wasn't quite sure why.

"Christine! There you are!"

I spun around to see Meg charging at me from the hallway. She shut the bathroom door behind her and grabbed my hands. "Well? What did she say? Did you tell her I wrote the note? Did you get in trouble?"

"N-no, I didn't tell her anything," I replied. I opened my mouth to tell Meg that our teacher knew anyway, but decided not to. I swallowed nervously and continued. "I told her it was me. Don't worry, you won't get in trouble. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Christine, you're the best!" Meg exclaimed with an over-dramatic hug. I frowned and tried to wiggled out of her squeeze. "Can you imagine if my mother heard about that note? I would be dead! Well, did you read it all?"

"Did you really do all of that?" I asked in mild awe.

She bit her lip and nodded. "He picked me up and then we went to his house, and..." she blushed and sat down against the wall, pulling me down with her. "Well, we didn't _do_ it," she clarified with a pointed gaze at me. "He asked me to-" she covered her mouth and giggled, and I felt cold sweats start down my back. "-to put it in my mouth." She giggled again and shook her head with a wrinkled nose. "It tastes salty. Salty and sour at the same time. It's gross."

"Meg, I can't believe you did that," I breathed. "That's a sin!"

_"Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, Christine, and you will be forgiven."_

"But then we kissed, and it was amazing, Christine, it felt so good," Meg continued, oblivious to my own personal Jiminey Cricket. "I just can't believe it's a sin, not if it felt that good! Trust me-" she turned to me and grabbed my hands earnestly. "You'll agree with me when you finally do it too."

Finally. When I finally did it. Everything about Meg's happy face just made me angry.

"Do you want to know what _I_ think?" Erik chuckled as he threw a grape into the air and then caught it with his mouth. He look like a big jaguar, the way he was lounging across his black bed so carefully relaxed. I couldn't stop the tingling between my legs.

"What do you think?" I asked crankily, dying to take one of the ripe purple grapes from his mouth with my own. The tingling was _awful_.

"I think your father and Meg are sleeping together," he replied simply. "Not that I blame him, Meg looks delicious, _and_ you said she was a virgin on top of that-"

"What are you _talking _about?" I demanded in disgust. "That's disgusting, why would you even say that!"

He shrugged and popped another grape. "It makes sense. Meg is pretty, young, and convenient, and your father is older, handsome, and experienced. She's always at your house, and those teenage hormones..." he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "You know how it is, don't you Christine? Just can't get enough."

"I'm not like that," I sniffed, pulling my knees in and hugging them close to my chest. "And Dad and Meg aren't doing anything."

"Can you just imagine," he purred, suddenly sliding towards me, "your father's hands pulling off your best friend's blouse? His hands touching her breasts, _squeezing_ her nipples, and Meg letting her head fall back and moaning-"

"Stop it!" I cried, pushing him back as hard as I could. "They're not doing _anything_!"

"But you don't really know for sure, do you Christine?" Erik murmured, letting his chin rest against my knee. "Maybe they're not, but all the same, don't you think he touches her a little too much? Don't you think they get along a little too well? And why does she always come to your house? Why don't you ever spend the night at her's?"

I shook my head in disagreement, but I said nothing because- well, because I had nothing to say. Erik was right. He said what I never wanted to think, what I never wanted to suspect, because I didn't know what to do with an idea like that. What if there was something going on between Dad and Meg?

"You know you can't trust him," Erik whispered, lifting himself up and pressing his lips against my ear, "and now you can't trust her either. She's _sleeping_ with your _father_, Christine, and she's doing it right under your nose."

"Well what am I supposed to do about it?" I fretted. "If I can't trust Dad and Meg, who can I trust?"

"Trust _me_, Christine," Erik purred. "Trust me."

_"In God I trust; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?"_

"So I'll come over your house after dance on Friday?" Meg asked me at my locker. "I think we're getting out a little early, my teacher's son is getting married in Iowa-"

"Why?" I demanded, trying to hide myself behind my locker door.

"Because her son lives in Iowa, that's why-"

"No, I mean why do you want to come to my house?" I asked.

Meg shrugged and looked perplexed. "Well, because... I always sleep over your house on Friday. We've been doing that forever, since we were in elementary school. What's wrong with me coming over?"

"Well, I don't know," I shrugged and looked away. "Why don't I come over your house again?"

She wrinkled her nose and tilted her head earnestly. "No, come on, your house is better! It's bigger, your Dad always orders pizza and my mom tries to make us weird recipes that we never eat, _and_ your bathroom has double sinks for facial masks."

I tilted my head thoughtfully. She had a point; her bathroom didn't have double sinks, and without double sinks we couldn't do facial masks. _"Beauty is vain, Christine,"_ the voice reminded me, _"but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised."_

I shook my head resolutely. "I- I don't think so, Meg," I stammered. "I don't think this weekend is a good idea. Maybe next weekend, but I'll be busy with a lot of homework Friday night. I'll see you later, bye!" I

slammed my locker shut and spun around before she could reply. I just caught a glimpse of her face before I turned, and I had to think as hardly as I could about what Erik said to erase her hurt expression.

Friday night felt miserable without Meg. I felt like there was a big pit in the middle of my stomach as I tried to concentrate on my math homework (still Pythagoras) and I finally closed my notebook and decided to leave it for the weekend. Every time my conscience came close to overwhelming me and I picked up the phone to call Meg, Erik's voice echoed in my head like a tennis ball, planting the same seed of doubt again.

Half of me (I couldn't remember if it was the rational half or not anymore) insisted that I was being paranoid and ridiculous for listening to Erik, who I barely knew, and cutting off Meg, who I had known all of my life. This half said the idea of Dad and Meg having an illicit affair right under my nose was absurd and besides, what proof did I have besides a vague resentment directed at both of them because Dad was distant and Meg was so pretty?

The other half of me insisted anything was possible. Erik had yet to lie to me, _and_ he had given me photos showing that the same was not true for Dad. That alone made Erik the trustworthy one, didn't it? And what about the voice in my head? It couldn't be a coincidence that it was identical to Erik's; and if the voice inside of my head was God did that make Erik God too? Anything Erik said should be trusted then, just by virtue of him being under divine command.

Somehow I couldn't picture God spanking me with a belt for fun and then telling me about how wet it made my panties.

I picked up my remote and turned on the TV to clear my mind. I started flipping through the channels and stopped when I found a movie with Robert De Niro and Nick Nolte. Everything else was midway through; this one was just starting. I pressed the button for more information, and the title and summary popped up:

**Cape Fear- A convicted rapist, released from prison after serving a 14 year sentence, stalks the family of the lawyer who originally defended him. Robert De Niro, Nick Nolte, 1991.**

To say my palms started to sweat or that my breath hitched would be a cliché- instead, I calmly shut off the television and lay down across my bed. I shut my eyes and tried breathing in the way Meg taught me when she went through her yoga phase- breathe in for four seconds, hold for four seconds, breathe out for four seconds. I even tried saying 'om.'

"What are you _doing_?" a voice demanded from my door.

"Contemplating life," I sighed.

"Where's Meg?" Dad asked, still not actually coming inside of my room.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know? She's not sleeping over tonight?"

"No, she's not sleeping over tonight. But I'll be here, hi, remember me?"

"Christine, what is the matter with you?" Dad asked impatiently. "Did you have a bad day at school or something? Did you and Meg have a fight?"

"I'm very tired, Dad," I whispered. "I think I'm going to sleep now. I don't want dinner tonight."

"Whatever," he muttered, "goodnight. See you tomorrow."

As soon as the door was shut behind him, I grabbed my phone and dialed Erik. "Christine, my sweet little Casper, I was wondering when you would call me-"

"Erik, I have to talk to you," I said, trying to sound as serious and firm as possible. It was nearly impossible- just hearing his voice made my knees start to tremble. "You have to tell me the truth."

"Damn. I just started watching it too, isn't that a coincidence they would play this movie now? I mean, it's more than fifteen years old-"

"What are you talking about?" I demanded uncertainly.

"Cape Fear," he replied simply, "Max Cady. You obviously noticed some... similarities between the film and the story I gave you. I should really let you go and watch it, I think this is one of De Niro's best roles-"

"Erik!" I cried, "You lied to me! Why did you tell me that? You gave me some twenty year old movie plot as your life story! How can you be so calm about this? Who _are_ you?"

He actually laughed. "You wanted a story, Christine, I gave you a story! What else do you want from me? I gave you a good story too, this is a great movie, that's why I picked it. Why don't I pick you up now, I'll Tivo this and we can watch it together at my place, what do you say?"

"No!" I covered my eyes and bit my lip, and I willed myself to stay calm, but I couldn't, and then there were tears dripping down my cheeks, and my lip started to tremble beneath my teeth, "Tell me who you are, please, tell me the truth."

"Alright. My wife is unfaithful and greedy, and I want to divorce her but she won't, because she wants my money. I stalked you and found out that you had some trouble with your dad, so I befriended you so I could propose my plan: you kill my wife, and I'll kill your dad. Nobody will suspect anything, because we're-"

"Strangers On A Train!" I yelled, "Stop it! Stop lying to me Erik, I want you to tell me the truth, I can't take this anymore, I don't know what's real and what's not!"

"Oh, calm down, Christine," Erik snapped, and I could imagine him rolling his eyes. "You don't want the truth, you don't care about the truth. Listen to yourself! I told you I was a convicted _felon_, and you accepted that story without a second thought, and you know why? Because it made everything your father's fault. You don't want the truth, you want an excuse."

I bit my lip until I felt blood trickle into my mouth. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and I didn't say a word. I had nothing to say! I felt like it was impossible to defend myself against Erik- I think Erik could've defended decapitating baby seals for sport, his personality was that strong. It wasn't that he was convincing- because I wasn't convinced- I just felt helpless to argue against him.

"That's what your whole life is about, Christine," he whispered after at least a minute's silence on my end. "It's not about living, it's about finding an excuse. Finding an excuse for being unpopular, finding an excuse for being unhappy all the time, finding an excuse for your mother's death... what's your father's excuse for hating you?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Guess who's back. ;)**

_Tu es ma came-_  
_quand tu pars_  
_c'est l'enfer_  
_et ses flammes._  
_Toute ma vie,_  
_toute ma peau_  
_te réclame-_  
_on dirait_  
_que tu coules_  
_dans mes veines._

_- Tu Es Ma Came, Carla Bruni_

_"Your father hates you, Christine, he hates you, he hates you, he hates you," _Erik's voice echoed in my head. I couldn't make it stop, and I knew it wasn't the voice, either; this was just an echo of what he had told me earlier.

I hung up on Erik. I can literally feel the walls of my brain start to close in on me until I'm sure I won't be able to get out whenever I speak to him. I feel like the world is already a mildly frightening place, but the way Erik makes me doubt myself makes me feel like even my own mind isn't safe either.

I changed my mind; I was suddenly hungry after the exhausting 'revelation' that Erik was a psychotic liar. I left my room and made my way to the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table alone, watching the news from the TV in the living room. I entered the kitchen warily and eyed the food; it looked good.

"Thought you weren't hungry," he grunted.

"I changed my mind," I replied, sitting down in my spot.

"So why the bad mood?" He asked with a frown. "Did you get a bad grade at school or something? Didn't get a seat in the cafeteria?"

I shrugged wordlessly and served myself some food. Dad stood up to get a drink, and I impulsively went after him and silently wrapped my arms around his waist. "Wha-" he stammered, keeping his arms wide open with one hand still clutching his glass. "Christine, what's going on?" And then I felt his hand gently descend onto my head, my tangle of invisible steel wool, and I squeezed him tighter. "Christine?" he murmured finally setting down his glass and putting his hands on my shoulders. "What's the matter?"

I shook my head and pressed my face into Dad's sweater and inhaled the same cologne he had used my entire life. "Dad," I whispered, "do you like me better than Meg?"

"Christine, what kind of a question is that?" he replied gruffly, but his hands moved from perching on my shoulders to wrapping around my waist. "You're my daughter, Christine, Meg is just your friend. Did you two get into some kind of a fight? Is that what this is all about?" He pulled away slightly to glance at my face, and his expression was uncertain.

I shrugged again and sighed into his sweater. "Do you miss Mom?"

I felt him stiffen slightly and then I heard him sigh as well. "Of course I do, Christine," he replied, "your mother was the love of my life. It would've been one thing if I was expecting her to die, if she had cancer or something, but then the way she went was just so unexpected… I went to the hospital expecting to leave with a brand new family, but I came out with a dead wife and a sick little baby."

I started to cry. "I'm sorry I'm sick," I whispered, and Dad pulled away to kneel in front of me. "I'm sorry I killed Mom."

He turned away briefly, and when he turned back, his face was distorted, like he was trying to stay as expressionless as possible. "You didn't _kill_ your mother, Christine, she just- died, it just happens, people die. Please stop crying, I- I don't know what to do when you cry-"

I suddenly felt a rush of shame wash over me at letting Dad see me fall apart. I felt foolish and disgusted with myself. What was I thinking? Did I really think Dad and I would suddenly become best friends forever just because Erik let me down? _Idiot_.

"I'm not hungry," I whispered, spinning on my heel and walking away.

"Just go… do your homework," Dad mumbled distractedly, as he braced his hands around the kitchen sink and stared down the drain intently. "Night."

_You know, Dad never actually said he liked you better than Meg, _an evil little voice hissed in my ear once I made it to my bedroom. _Who are we kidding? Of _course_ he likes her better than you!_

"I want five minutes peace in my own head without someone just barging in!" I groaned. I grabbed the roots of my hair and pulled, and the tingling felt nice. I imagined my face would be nice and flushed and maybe pink, not white. I grabbed the scissors from my desk, wiped them down, and pressed one sharp edge into the tender white expanse of my upper thigh. _Pop!_ A drop of blood appeared.

Mmmm.

"Christine, _guess_ what I'm going to do this weekend."

"Spin in a circle on your pointe shoes until you drill yourself into a hole in the ground," I murmured, listlessly squishing a french fry into a mushy pulp on the lunch tray.

Meg stopped- she did stop- for a split second, and then continued on obliviously. "_It_," she said in a stage whisper. She looked ready to pee in her pants from the excitement. "I'm going to do _it_. Finally." She clapped her hands together and squealed loudly.

I felt a heart palpitation, but I stayed motionless and tried not to react. "Oh," I replied dumbly. "Wow."

"We're not even going to do it in his car or anything, he's reserving us a hotel room for the entire weekend! Isn't that amazing? I'm so excited!" She actually clapped. My eyes probably looked like they were bulging out of their sockets. "Christine, isn't that amazing? Don't worry, I promise I'll tell you all about it afterwards."

I tuned Meg out and retreated back to the dank, dark cave in my mind. In fact, there was something a little bit liberating about being crazy, sort of like how I felt not doing homework at the end of the year- rebellious and untouchable, because once teachers submitted their grades, it didn't matter whether I did work or not. If I were actually crazy, it didn't matter what I did. Untouchable.

"Can I meet him?" I asked.

Meg flushed and played with her fork. "Why do you want to meet him?" she asked with a nose crinkle. "You probably wouldn't even like him."

"What do you mean?" I pressed. "I like everyone. Really." I tried to add the last part earnestly, but I could already tell from Meg's face that my attempt fell flat. "What, is he really ugly or awkward or something?"

Meg bit her lip and stared at me with what I could only define as pity. A whoosh of wind swept through my head, and I swallowed. Why else would she pity me? Because she was planning on sleeping with my father this weekend, that's why. That was the only possible explanation. _Every_one in my life was a traitor.

"Christine, it's just that…" Meg reached out and grabbed my hand, but I pulled back, suddenly repulsed by the thought of Meg's hands touching me after they had touched Dad. "I don't really know how to say this to you, but-"

"Don't say anything to me!" I cried, slapping my hands over my ears. Meg's eyes widened in alarm, and she opened her mouth, but I furiously shook my head and got up from the table. "I can't _trust_ you, Meg!" I accused, keeping my hands firmly over my ears and narrowing my eyes at her. I grabbed my things and stormed out of the cafeteria, leaving Meg behind, still staring at me like the cat got her tongue.

Did she think I was that stupid? Did they both think I was that stupid, that I wouldn't eventually figure it out? If Dad was going to take my best friend's virginity over the weekend, I decided that gave me license to do something just as bad; as if he would even notice or care.

"Can it be? Can it be Christine?" Erik's voice sang in a gleeful falsetto over the phone. "My dear little meringue, I'm glad you came to your senses and called me back. Do you know why I called you meringue? It's because you're all white, haha-"

"Erik, I want to do something bad," I whispered, cupping my hand around the cell phone. I glanced under the bathroom stall to make sure I was still alone and continued. "Would you please help me?"

"Bad is what I do, Christine, you know I'm here to be the little devil on your shoulder. Please elaborate. Are we killing someone, or skipping school again? When's it going down?"

"I- I don't really know what I want to do, but I want it to be bad. Not killing anyone. This weekend… Erik, Dad and Meg are going to sleep together! Meg practically spelled it out for me right now, after I confronted her with-" I tried to swallow my fib, but I couldn't- "the evidence. She was looking at me like she felt _sorry_ for me, while else would she? I want to do something bad too."

Erik chuckled. "I completely understand, why else would somebody look at you with pity? Right, well, I'll think of something _bad_, Casper, don't worry. Maybe you should slice yourself up a little bit too, that'll show them." He laughed again, and rang off, leaving me alone in the bathroom.

"Erik is right," I realized, "that _will_ show them." I might not be able to completely believe everything Erik said, but at least I could trust that he was looking out for my best interest.

"Are we still going to church this Sunday?" I asked Dad sharply that evening.

He tilted his head and swallowed. "Actually, I thought we would skip," he replied thoughtfully.

_Betrayal!_

"I've been thinking, Christine," he continued, "I know we've been going to church every Sunday forever, but maybe it's time to take a break. You know, it was your mom who got me to go? Her family was very religious, but mine never really cared. Your mom was the one who loved Jesus, and I loved her, so I learned to love him too. But the other day, you got me thinking about her, and Christine, I know you've never really liked going, so now I think you're old enough to decide to go or not."

"We're… skipping church?" I breathed.

Dad actually smiled and nodded. "You can finally sleep late," he chuckled. "Not me, I'll be in the city on business…" he went on, but I quickly tuned him out.

"_For the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me; they have spoken against me with a lying tongue." _I stared at Dad with wide eyes, and I felt the strangest feeling of pure, solid _hate_ bubbling up inside of me for the man who was going to betray God to have sex with my best friend. It was a scary feeling, like I was a pot of boiling water on the stove, and I wasn't sure when the boiling water would actually bubble up and out of me.

"But won't God be angry?" I choked in a whisper.

"I thought the same thing," Dad admitted, cooly taking a sip of water, "and I wondered if your mother would be angry- she always wanted to raise you in the Church, never wanted you to miss a day- but I kept thinking about it, and I think... they would just want us to be happy, Christine."

"Going to church _does_ make me happy!" I suddenly shrieked. "How can you do this to me?"

Dad stared at me in alarm, with the same expression Meg had given me earlier, and it made me furious. "Christine! What-"

"You're _lying_ to me!" I cried, throwing my fork on my plate and standing up from the table. "I don't know _who_ to trust anymore!" I left my plate on the table, just like that, and stormed off to my room, making sure to _slam_ the door behind me. And then I waited with bated breath for Dad to come running after me, to confess everything and apologize, and admit Meg meant nothing to him, and say if I wanted we would go to church on Sunday together. I sat down.

I checked my watch, but ten minutes later, and I still didn't hear frantic footsteps running down the hall to convince me of Dad's love. I carefully and quietly tiptoed down the hall and tried to hear what was going on in the kitchen. Dad was speaking on the phone and eating dinner. Good that I didn't ruin his meal.

_"… _acting crazy- told her about church, and she totally flipped out… mmhmm, yeah… must be a phase…"

I glared at my hands and sulked back to my room. Erik would help me be bad, and then Dad would notice. I settled on my bed with a safety razor and began to dream about the upcoming weekend.

"Why aren't you drugging me?" I asked Erik in the car, unable to conceal my excitement. I looked everywhere, up and down and out the window and tried to memorize everything all at once. Erik seemed so magnificently calm about everything that it was starting to unnerve me. I waited for the chloroform to smack me in the face.

He chuckled and turned on the radio. "Because I trust you, my little meringue. You're not going to tell anyone where I live, right?"

I didn't bother responding; it was obvious I would never betray Erik. Who would I betray him to? I settled back in my seat and tried to calm down- I even tried chanting 'om' to relax, before I realized the music on the radio was religious chanting. I sighed and closed my eyes comfortably. Erik knew me better than anyone in the entire world. What should have been unsettling was the most comforting thought I had had in a very long time.

"Erik," I mumbled after a long time in the car. My eyes were still closed. "Do you believe in God?"

"_Mmm. 'The devils also believe, and tremble._"

"Erik," I repeated, "do you believe in God?"

"I just told you, Christine," he replied slowly. "Didn't you hear me?"

I frowned but kept my eyes closed. "That was you who said that? But you just-"

"Quoted the Bible? I can read, you know," he said snarkily.

"No, you just…" _Sounded just like the voice that always talks to me in my head._ "Erik," I began again, "do you think I'm crazy?"

"Yes," he said. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," I sighed.

I naturally fell asleep and missed out on the directions to Erik's apartment again and only just woke up as he was pulling into a parking space in an underground garage. Everything around us was pitch black once the headlights were extinguished. I opened my door after Erik and stood by the car uncertainly, completely blinded to everything around me. "Erik?" I whispered.

"Are you scared?" his voice teased from somewhere on the other side of the car.

"Yes," I breathed. "I can't see anything."

"Like you ever can," he chuckled. "Maybe I'll just leave you out here, in the dark, alone, with the rats…"

I felt my lower lip tremble and I started feeling my way towards his voice around the car. "Erik," I whispered, "please help me. Please-"

"I love it when you beg," his voice suddenly murmured in my ear as I felt the rest of him press against me. "I'll have to make you do it some more upstairs. Let's go." He took my hand and I gratefully trotted after him until we were in a bright elevator, climbing up. When we reached his floor, I was surprised to see his was the only door in front of us- the rest of the floor was bare hallway.

Before I followed him inside, I brushed my hand over the apartment number nailed into his door. It was an italic _3_, wrought iron, black, and absolutely ordinary. But touching it was like magic, like touching Jesus nailed to the cross. I had something tangible of Erik's existence, so if ever I needed to, I knew I could find him in apartment 3.

As soon as I stepped in, the lights went out. I tripped and stumbled into the rug and then fell ungracefully on my behind. "Ow," I muttered. "Why'd you turn the lights off?"

"To play with you," Erik laughed. "Follow my voice, and I'll give you a kiss when you find me." Despite myself, I felt my heart speed up at the thought of being kissed. Somewhere in the dark, Erik chuckled again. "I'm sure that excited you, didn't it? The thought of a kiss…"

I slowly made my way to where I last heard his voice, step by step until I felt my thighs bump something soft and firm. The bed. That's where he was. I strained to hear for breathing, but he was deathly silent. Maybe he wasn't on the bed. I turned painfully slowly and crept around the curve of the bed, to where I thought I heard a faint rustling. I reached my arms out in the darkness and walked as slowly as if I were learning to walk.

"Freeze," he hissed, and an iron clad grip grabbed my waist. I bit my lip and tried not to make a sound as his fingers dug into my sides painfully, but I finally squeaked when I practically felt my blood vessels popping, and he shoved me to the bed. I scrambled, but I didn't know where to scramble, and he knocked me down before I could even form a coherent thought. I felt him wrap something around my wrists to bind them together that dug into my skin when I tugged at it.

_Slap._

"Ow!" I yelped, clumsily rolling onto my belly to hide my face from another slap.

Erik rolled me back over, and suddenly nuzzled his face into my neck. My breath hitched and the burning in my cheek started to feel like a good burning. His right hand crept along my ribcage, and I saw a knife drifted up to the neck of my t-shirt, and with a terrible, ugly _rrrrip_, I felt him slice the cotton clean in half. I sniffled- I loved that t-shirt. "Hush," he ordered softly. "Stop crying." He cut the rest of my t-shirt and bra off and I started to shiver, not just from the fear and anticipation, but from cold as well.

"Erik," I whispered. He pressed the knife against my lips in response, and I squeezed my eyes shut. He unfastened my jeans and slid them down my legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind like lines of Braille. Bump bump bump. I felt Erik's weight on me, and I blushed scarlet when I felt him brush against my panties. "Christine," he smiled, looping his fingers and tugging them down, down, down my thighs, "I can smell you."

His hand crept closer- I held my breath and jolted when he touched me. He pushed me back and pressed each hand on either side of me. I closed my eyes, and suddenly felt cold against my cheek. Cold, and then warm, soft human skin. Erik's mask, and Erik's face. Cold and warm. Hard and soft. I sighed, and Erik's lips closed over mine, sucking my sigh right out of my lungs. And then he was gone.

I lay still in Erik's bed and stared at the ceiling. I didn't bother looking through the darkness for him. I couldn't even see the ceiling. All I saw was black.

"_Christine_."

"Yes," I replied.

"_Mark me, Christine_," the voice continued, "_and be astonished_."

"Is that God or Erik?" I wondered, furrowing my brow and finally trying to squint around the darkness in vain. "I can't see, please turn on the light."

"_I form the light_," the voice replied cryptically.

"Can you form it now?" I asked.

The voice laughed and I tried to figure out where it was coming from. It sounded like it was coming from the ceiling. I continued to stare as the voice added, "_and create darkness_." In the middle of the ceiling, light started to form, and it grew out until there was a floating cloud of it hovering in front of me. I sat up and realized I was trapped in Erik's bed as long as my wrists were so tightly bound. As I struggled, the cloud reached around me and wrapped me up in the light, and when I looked around, I saw that I was floating with it, inches above the bed.

"_Christine_," the voice repeated, only this time it was right next to me, and I felt my ear tingle from the breath blown against it. "_Be still, and know that I am God_."

"God," I murmured, "what are you doing here?"

"_Be still_," the voice murmured, and this time the breath was against my lips. I closed my eyes and felt lips against mine again, and I felt cool breath inside of my mouth, breath that didn't feel like mine but felt like air instead, and when the lips pulled away, it felt like they had taken my breath along with them. I opened my eyes, and it felt like there was a form above me, in the cloud, and my entire body was being covered by its warmth. I was being kissed again, and now rough, calloused hands were running up my sides, along my breasts and through my hair, and when they pulled it, I moaned in pleasure.

"What are you?" I breathed. "Who are you?"

"_I am the God of your father_," as the rough, calloused hands grasped my hips, "_I am who I am. Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, Christine, and before you were born, I set you apart._" The hands jerked my hips upwards and I suddenly felt an unmistakable pressure against my leg, though I still couldn't see any more than the fuzzy light surrounding me.

My legs instinctively climbed and wrapped around the faceless, featureless warm shape, and the cool lips kissed my forehead. "_There is no fear in love,_" he whispered, and then something was inside of me, moving, arching, pushing, and I knew what St Theresa meant by the _sweetness of this excessive pain. _

The rough hands slid from my hips, over my breasts to grasp my bound hands, and I cried out when I suddenly felt an acute pain in each palm. The hands reached around to hold my ankles, locked around the hips of the form above me, and again, I felt the same sharp stab of pain through each of my feet.

_Stigmata_.

"God," I moaned, "God, God, God-" I arched my back and felt a shudder grab my body, like I was being jerked back and forth uncontrollably and I cried when the lips kissed me again and the shudder finally let me go.

And just as soon as it all started, it was over. I was lying on Erik's bed again, and there was no cloud of light or warm form above me. I was just alone in the dark.

"Erik," I whispered, struggling to sit up and climb out of bed. I could feel that my wrists were bloody from tearing free from the restraints, and as soon as I put my left foot on the floor, I collapsed with a loud thump. I couldn't stand. My feet were bleeding, and each step I took was excruciating. I tried to crawl across the floor, but my hands were bleeding too, and any pressure I put on them hurt just as badly as walking.

"Erik!" I cried. Panic started to set it. Was I alone? Where had he gone? Why was I bleeding so much? I felt moisture between my legs and gasped when my hand came away wet- covered in blood. I couldn't see it, but I knew. I could _smell_ it. "Erik!" I screamed.

"Christine," suddenly Erik's voice was right beside me. A light flickered on, and I squinted around me. Erik's room looked… exactly the same as it always did. There was nothing there to suggest anything strange had happened, or that anyone else had been there. I glanced down and saw that I was a blurry mess of white limbs and bright red blood. My panic came back, but Erik quickly lifted me onto the bed again before I could say anything.

"Oh Christine," he sighed, "I think it's time I got you home." He reached over into the night table drawer and pulled out a rag.

"No, Erik, wait-"

"Shhh, relax," he whispered, gently pressing it over my face. "A little sleep, a little slumber…"


End file.
